An Imperfect Love Poem

I like tall, dark and handsome — Errol Flynn

when I was a young girl: that wicked grin

as Robin or pirate, his sword flashing.

For also, of course, they must be dashing.

Until, my love, I met you, when older.

True, in your own way there was none bolder,

but in manner less dashing than abrupt.

And your height had suffered an interrupt

to be on the same level as my own.

White-haired and blue-eyed — still, how those eyes shone.

With our matching heights just right for kissing,

I soon decided nothing was missing.

By now, sweet soul, though you've left me in death,

your beauty sustains me to my last breath.

Prompt 22 for 'Poems in April' at 'imaginary garden with live toads' is to write a perfect love poem, hopefully in formal verse.  Mine is an imperfect Clarian sonnet, with 10-syllable lines rather than strict iambic pentameter. The title also refers to the imperfections of the beloved against 'tall, dark and handsome' standards. Lastly, I've written so many serious love poems, there wasn't much left to me now except to go a bit against the grain. The photo is from my 60th birthday party, five years after we married.