Sunday morning, pit-pit patter on my window panes
hot beverage, blurred vision
old gramophone playing in the next room.
Oh, how she loves music!

40 years of marriage, her hair still smell like fresh jasmine
broken glasses, shallow pockets.
Her radiant smile, wet hair
I sniff the jasmine in the air around.

Love marriage, college affair
Love letters, and library meetings.
old days, fresh memories.
She peers out from behind the door.

Her wrinkled skin, mine too.
Her lips part as she hums along to
old gramophone playing in the next room.
Oh, how she loves music!