Love’s not found

in languid looks

and impassioned sighs,

trite phrases muttered

as soon forgot as uttered;

or gifts that beggar cost

that in age we will discover lost.


Love’s not found in roses faded

or poses jaded by petty

jealousies. Such love only sees

what it most craves, and

not the other’s careworn ways,

or anxious fears and voiceless sighs

in weary and in fretful days.


And this I say, though

words come hard when

life’s dull strength has

torn and worn away the sense

and blush of love’s first kiss.


Yet I still know this:

My wife’s love’s a fire.

Though hedged with care of those

not there and dearly missed

it lingers

ever kissed in her warm heart.


No flight of startled doves, no.

Her love’s a constant light

in my stilled soul.

A friend enfolded ever.


On this I’ve built a life

unmoved by ‘if’ and ‘should’

but founded still by what

is good and of eternal worth.


Her love is measured

in our enduring tale,

in purpose bound and future claimed,

in restoration gained,

and forgiveness found.


To her I owe all this.

With her I find my peace