Upon returning home, I found myself determined to unearth more secrets from my past that those around me were unable or unwilling to assist me in discovering. In a small drawer of a bedside table, I found something, wrapped in red silk and tied with a white satin bow. It looked to be a gift, and I wondered to whom I might have failed to bestow it upon.

I carefully unwrapped the parcel and discovered something that knocked the breath from me. Prior to marrying my husband, whom I was ashamed to have not even the slightest memory of, I had apparently been very much in love. But not with my husband!

I sat on my bed, and with trembling hands, turned the pages of a sonnet corona that I had apparently written to someone named Edward Stafford. The inscription on the inside cover read:

To my beloved, Edward,

I dream each night of the day that I might place this in your hand, when finally we meet in Belgium, and my heart, which beats within your breast, shall be reunited with your own which beats in mine.

Forever and always,

Your Olivia

I read and re-read the inscription, trying in vain to find some sense of memory of him; his face, his manner... but it was useless.

Finally, I read through, and found myself awash with a wave of regret that he might have met the same fate as my husband. Perhaps he had perished in some manner - perhaps during the very crossing to Belgium of which I wrote! I held the small book to my breast and grieved the loss of so great a love that it inspired something which I did not believe came only from me, but from the adoration of this gentleman.

. . . One . . .

In sitting down, with quill in hand, I write.
The writer, seeing empty page, laments.
This labor must be set in black and white;
Until it's done, my heart won't be content.

For in this month, two days of great import:
A lovers' destined meeting two months past,
And an escape those lovers do exhort
And I - for these - begin a wearing task.

Each day that passes, leaves me less aloof.
The burning need to follow to the end,
Committed that my love should have the proof
And so, despite this challenge, I ascend.

Will I accomplish this which I desire?
Will words be frozen in vexation's mire?

. . . Two . . .

Will words be frozen in vexations mire?
When all I long for is the words to bind?
Oh, can I write as well as I aspire?
Or will this finish in a muddled mind?

Eyes rising from the page, I look around.
No evidence of him in sound or sight.
Yet ev'rywhere his presence does abound,
Just thoughts of him diminishing my might.

And yet, though weaker made by reverie
I find a strength like mountains rising high
As stony pinnacles that pierce the sea,
The words begin to flow as time draws nigh.

There is no barrier to stop this flow
Upon my love, this message to bestow.

. . . Three . . .

Upon my love, this message to bestow.
Push aside my ever-pressing doubt;
The dearth of words I wittingly outgrow.
Thoughts of him bring rain upon the drought.

The ground, once cracked and dry; devoid of life
Where sustenance was nary seen or found,
Still showing scars and memories of strife,
Now bears a fruit more sweet and more profound.

Even at the time we turned away,
Seeking out an unknown requisite,
And blinded to the future's sweet replay,
No choice but our devotion to admit.

Though to outward eyes my heart is cold,
Your love does advocate that I be bold.

. . . Four . . .

Your love does advocate that I be bold
As winds o'er meadows drive away a scourge.
Our love, the kind of classic stories told,
Each prior failure from my heart is purged.

Each setting sun, the promise of tomorrow.
The rising sun alighting love renewed.
No more, our hearts entrenched in a past sorrow
And ev'ry day love's interest is accrued.

The ending week brings anxious plans to bear
As lovers, come together, hearts alight
We, deeply love, utterly aware
A simple touch or word sets us to right.

No devastating storm could hope to spoil;
This enchantment's web cannot uncoil.

. . . Five . . .

This enchantment's web cannot uncoil.
Meticulously woven with such care
Shrewdest malefactors hope to roil,
Our hearts too tightly bound to rip or tear.

A distance seeming half a world away,
Though daunting in its vastness, breadth and scope,
Does not prevent, discourage or dissuade,
But fortifies the harbor of our hopes.

Humbled by your constance and belief,
My fears and superstitions held at bay,
Your ever-stoic love provides relief,
And sets my sights upon a brighter day.

With each unflagging step, our love evolves.
You energize and strengthen my resolve.

. . . Six . . .

You energize and strengthen my resolve;
Though thought the one of fortitude, verdure.
Around your heart, my own, a moon, revolves.
I find, with you alone, I can endure.

The 'weaker sex' I never thought defined.
Independent, almost to a fault.
Until your adoration, once entwined,
My heart has softened, almost by default.

Thus, lead by you to softer, gentler ground,
Thereby coerced into a slower pace,
T'was there, within myself a heart, I found.
So shed of callous nature, dressed in grace.

You, couturier, bedeck my heart.
So swathing, generate a work of art.

. . . Seven . . .

So swathing, generate a work of art.
The inner self emerges, quite enthralled.
Willfully, my guarded self departs.
Free and joyous; never more be walled.

And as this lover's task comes to an end,
I hope with all my might that I impart
Upon your love and kindness, I depend.
Perhaps more now, than at our very start.

It seems, through all this space I've had to use,
I've not articulated well my view.
If love were words, you'd surely be my muse.
For only one thing spawned this venture: You.

Though meager as my amity requite,
In sitting down with quill in hand, I write.