84.

The season of our wooing, a stillness now,

So frantic, bursting, pollinating then,

Makes nothing of twenty years. It is something

To us. Are stories enough of an argument

To say we were and are and will be?

Love is more than coffee spoons, even if

I gushed like a peach. This brain is getting

Too old for visions. Love poems are not

Self-help manuals. What do I know

That everyone else does not? I just happen

To have an ear and a pen at hand, a little

Like Bottom, to dream love is more than an ass

Nothing I can say is enough to celebrate

Fate, fortune, dumb luck, pleasure — meeting you.