Your Heroic Boughs

I might have carved you,
Hewn you from stone,
Murmured-myth-nothings
Into the chiselled marble
Of your ear and brought
You into existence
To hear your moss soft
Lips part to answer me,
I will rest in your heroic
Boughs, and I do not think
That you will tear the crepe
Of my soul with clumsy hands
Or words, and I have framed
My faith in you, clasped it in
So that you will not pock
Me with the marks
Of criticism or mock me
Once you have raised me up
On the berries of your love,
I will engrave my name
At your base, etch myself
To you so that you will not
Forget me too easily.