a Curtal Sonnet Her Evening in Paris was dainty blue, safe in a place forbidden to young ones too new to understand passionate love between a man and a woman that grew and burst in a blaze that rivaled the sun's, then putting to shame the stars up above. The years passed by as they are wont to do, but her scent lingers in the mourning dove, and still warms the hearts of her stalwart sons and of the grandchildren who barely knew her blue scent of love.
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