To M

Love is sometimes born of others' pain
And pleasure torn from years' long wasted times
When we have measured out both gain and loss
And culled the bitter fruits of broken dreams.

Hardly awake we then must mope and cry.
Hardly alive complain that love's rich history
With arrows sharp and keen has not disturbed
Us, wrapped in life's perpetual mystery.

This day, if we prove wise, we'll raise a toast
To all the days and nights of our long tryst.
Though age and aching bones reduce us all to tears
We'll know for certain nothing has been missed.