Forty
years of marriage are a pass
On which one rests to see the view both ways,
Remembering the valleys left behind,
Taking in the grandeur just ahead.
Yet there is far too much for one to see.
Years of youth must
blend like distant brass
Even as love knots the migrant days
And time blows through the moment like a wind.
Regret and gratitude are here well wed,
So much alike, one could the other be.
