To Josephine with love.

To the girl in Martinique,
growing under a hot sun,
to the young lady in Paris,
ready to marry a nobleman,
to the wife of Beauharnais,
such a handsome count,
to the mother of his children
fighting for their lives,
to the prisoner of the Terror,
awaiting sadly her final day,
to her freedom in Thermidor
and her loves in between,
to the widow in Paris saloons,
to the dancer dressed in veils
to the seducer of Napoleon
to the Empress of the French,
to the lady of Malmaison
and her gardens full of roses,
love, love as she pursued,
love travelling through centuries.

 Lizziewolf. May 12th