These Later Years
Our early years, yes, were quite marvelous;
white porch swings & slow spring afternoons
when beneath your quiet eyes the first blush
of passion swelled & the low summer moon
poured its light across the sleeping grass.
& then our children ran through open fields
their laughter rising drifting bird-like past
our golden dreams in Autumn’s shimmering world.
Still – as I watch you brush your white hair
that falls like snow on rising hills – the trace
of memory, your eyes , your lips , your care
worn body, the movement of your wrist, such grace.
There is, I know, no season quite so fair
nor beauty found than in these later years.