My first valentine's day as a married woman. This was what my valentine gave me. A bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed white roses (sans the baby's breath which I had to get rid of to fit them into my slim, tall vase). What a pity a thing of beauty lasts only a few days.
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
--from THE BLACK ART
by Anne Sexton