The first year of love,
Taps on the shoulder –
Hesitates a pause before the song
To grasp at promises unformed
Only to receive its lonesome letters.
The second year of love
Laughs at sour faces.
Soft, like a ripened fig, slits
To find pleasure in a kiss
and reaches for farther places.
The third year of love,
Storms to a truce.
Boxing each within itself
In quietness of a darkened well
And still there is nothing to lose.
The fourth year of love,
How easy it does please.
free them will, unhurried dandelions,
let them pulse to lighter rhythms,
let summer make the peace.
The fifth year of love,
Lingers like little children.
One leaves to find her fame
The other stays to grow his pain
And so both seek a lighter burden.
The sixth year of love
Imagines a way home.
Might it so be defined,
the shape and contours of our time,
or might it go alone?
The seventh year of love
Brings a weighty question.
Yes, yes, a resounding yes!
No tears, no years make less
So loud an affirmation.
The eighth year of love,
He makes one flesh, one vow,
From imperfect then to imperfect now,
most perfect hence – a Son of sons,
a sun that burns where no love runs,
in days of silver and gold and diamond,
to love, like love has just begun.
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