Of Plums and Gold

I sit at my table (of emerald inlay
and gold tracery)
in my crimson gown 
(scrolls of black embroidery curling
at its cuffs)
and wear my gold medallion 
with its owl in bas-relief
and the letters AOE (touchstone
to my mentality)
my hair a silverfall, neat nails,
my ruby rings with their
hearts of bright fire are
extinguished to a dull red glow.  

O to be plucked
like a plum from a tree
by a sound male hand
and eaten ripe
before I thicken and sallow.  
I would
have this flower of womanhood 
the apex of my days 
nourished and loved, husbanded
in its show, be lavish, true, 
to blossom in full view
of a good and worthy man,
an outlandish companion 
who would not let me down.

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