La Musa Delle Rose (an Ode to my poetry mentor)
La Musa Delle Rose 💋 She had a smile... not the quiet kind, not the polite kind, but the kind that could short-circuit a room, make men rethink their promises, make women lean in closer just to catch it. Nona Gerri. Say her name with reverence it already sounds like a poem, already feels like a toast. Red lipstick. Red wine. Red-blooded laughter that dared the world to keep pace. She was plucky... but not dainty, not delicate. Plucky like firecrackers. Plucky like a spark in dry grass. Strike her spirit and you better believe sparks flew. Words? Oh, she didn’t just write them. She bent them. Made them spin, made them strut, made them paint pictures that could crawl under your skin and stay there. She could drop a line that felt like jazz at midnight, or a sonnet that kissed your forehead, or a punchline that left you laughing with sore ribs. She didn’t ask the world’s permis...