Forbidden Meaning

Hungry,
I went out in search of words
to make you a poem.

It being November,
and what with the wind blowing,
the trees scattered them at my feet.

I gathered them up,
grateful hints of autumn
I could cling to.
 

I collected images of dawn, dusk and darkness,
discarded mundane outworn phrases,
put fresh ones into my collecting jar,
sealed it tight,
and took you back to my place.

You started off a gangly Bambi,
with adolescent hips,
but from my jar I took more words
and brought on an apocalypse
of forbidden love.

Over months I moulded you into a poem,
always careful to keep you hidden.

At first I thought you were quite straightforward,
but as I got to know you,
I found you had beguiling subtlety of form,
a seductive symmetry of structure,
but damned capricious with it.

You weren’t at all practical
around the house,
but that didn’t matter.
I loved you – that’s what’s important,
isn’t it?

I still do.

Okay, you weren’t happy when I brought others home,
but you knew I wouldn’t leave you, didn’t you?

Well, didn’t you?

I’ll tell you this – I worry for you.
At my age I’m beginning to forget things.
I mean, I lost two lines of you last night.
Hope it wasn’t too painful?
Found them this morning,
but it’ll happen again.

Well, at least you won’t suffer, my love,
when I am gone.