My Silent Valentine
We met in spring and Oh! I loved you well!
Your sweet words sucked me with a magnet’s pull.
Your hands were flags upon a victory wind.
I told you secrets never meant to tell
And crocheted you droopy articles of wool.
My hair for you was grown and kept unpinned.
We parted in the fall with much hot air
Expended in explaining lying facts.
Your lips built a canal; each flatulent word
of ego and self-justifying prayer
floated merrily down in streaming tracts,
written by an inner idiot I’d never heard.
Now I have no love, no heart’s delight
Beyond a rainbow garden and a good dog
That live beside me and are truly mine,
And a solemn headstone clean of praise or spite
Where beneath the earth, beside a crumbling log
you are finally, sweetly silent, Valentine.
Image: Les Amoureux (Soir d'automne, Idylle sur la passerelle) by Emile Friant, 1888