To a Disillusioned Lover

My love is not the silver-white of snow

That gentles undisclosed topography;

My love cannot be pale and perfect. (Though

The tender dreams of long-grown girls would show

Full measure of the things we thought to be,

I, too, left these behind me long ago.)

My love cannot be pinks and roses, rare

Varieties that blush and wilt away.

Indeed, my love is not so thin and bare!

An iron-rich and tantalizing fare

To eat of — for a year, a month, a day;

However long I've bread and love to share.

Partake, or not, but know whose hearth you tread:

My love is blood. And blood, my love, is red.

 

edited for formatting on the app

 

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