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
an 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.