Soft gentle breezes
Rain paints color on petals
Green smells the grasses
Drifting across many meadows
Your hand has the sweetest touch

So...

Now we are old.
Our girths are a bit wider.
Skin, in places, a little tighter,
In others it hangs too loose.

And yet, you say I am just as beautiful
As when you first knew.
Yes, I think you are still handsome, too.

Oh!  Are we not a pair?
Your hair is gone,
There's grey in my hair.
So, now we are old...

What of that, Love?

-The north winds whistling through the eaves
-Your gritty mumblings in deep sleep
-The rain hitting the bedroom window
-Blown derbies upon the panes

These things brew an ointment,
which I will rub into my soul for eternity.

It fell from heaven
The tree adjusts its own height
Wet roots make for growth

Relic
Artifact
Buried

These are words that describe my love
And you.

When Dona died
The spring grasses yellowed,
Our cheeks ashen.  Her hair became a little redder
In our minds.  The boy and the man strained

Under the constraints
Of communication.  What was the sign
For "everything will be alright"?  "Fine,"
Yes, you should say, "Fine."  That is better.

Better than just, "okay".

Six months on, and hundreds of offspring later,
She is much too languid to even move.

The listless queen bee is stung repeatedly;
Her own children have seemingly turned on her.

Once good and dead she is tossed from the nest.
Merciless? Or mercy killing?

I will leave you to decide.