A love letter not published

A love letter not published. I'm old now, was old ten years ago, but less in years than at present, and not too old for warm a embrace She was related to my wife, which makes falling in love awkward, but infatuation falls like rain where it pleases “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain,” I wrote a love poem, not my metier, but as is said, nothing is as foolish as an old fool, or something like that. A poem about the way she walked, her gracious body beautiful, the way she cast her head like a filly when angry, how could I be still like a mute when confronted with so much desire? My intent was pure I dictated what my heart told me in a shivering moment, when fatally shot by the golden arrows and a heart that razed like an express to an early death in spring, when Easter Lilies smile emitting the intoxicating aroma of as yet unfulfilled love. I gave the poem her to read, she became ashen-faced Quickly, I said, I hope you like the poem it's written for a poetry magazine that takes in love poems. Oh, she said. Yes, a nice poem, but her hand trembled when she handed me the poem did I see a flicker of disappointment that the poem was not meant for her.