To Love An Artist

In spring my artist lover would take great delight
In scourging me with blossom-laden branches
Upon my naked back

He found it artistically and erotically inspiring
And claimed that as his muse it was my duty
I however- found the experience contradictory

There was pain of course - that goes without saying
Though I have just said it
But mixed with it - a subtle pleasure too

The shower of petals- floral snowfall - cooling my burning ze'brures
And pulped by the continuous blows into a balm
For the torn flesh where-on they landed

The elusive hint of scent in the air
Mixing with- but not quite masqueing - the musk of his exertion
And the fetor of his disdain

We tried them all he and I - anything that blossomed
Apple-cherry-peach-pear-plum-
The spring presented him with a floribundant arsenal

Soon- I found I could appreciate the subtle differences
Peach-the softest- plum- the most prolific- apple- the sweetest
But the pain was always the same

He is gone now- the artist - on to new muses
To new springs in exotic climes where I may not follow
Though what may bloom in shadow I do not know

So I bring him blossoms still- comes the spring
But I do not place them serenely on the grave-
But lash the earth whereunder he sleeps

I can still appreciate the subtleties of the blossoms
Shadings of hue - etherealism of scent - tactillious touch
But the pain is still the same ----

So it is - to love an artist