Born too late. That’s me. Always with the love affairs with the dead poets.
Last night, I celebrated my latest literary crush, Scottish poet Robert Burns. With his dark, dashing good looks and his workingman’s poet persona, Rabbie is a bona fide sex symbol as far as I’m concerned. So he was a bit of a scoundrel with the ladies, but that just lends to his legend. And, anyway, what great romantic poet wasn't? (Keats, I suppose.)
January twenty-fifth marks the bard’s birthday – yesterday he celebrated his 252nd – an event commemorated by Scots with Burns Night suppers featuring haggis, Scotch and poetry. I honored his birthday with a quiet evening in the cozy comfort of home. Fancying myself his Clarinda, I read Ae Fond Kiss and let the gentle smoky sting of Ledaig single malt kiss my lips.
“Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.”
As I read his words, I realized that I’ve been hiding from the living men dating pool since New Year's Eve. Come sleet, snow or dark of winter night, I needed to get back in there. Rabbie would want me to.
