On our Twentieth Anniversary
(more or less)
I do not cleave only unto him and so
some have thought this love a lightsome thing.
(It does not help that neither wears a ring.)
In truth, I sometimes wish that he would go --
-- inevitable, that single souls should grate
when year piles onto year until they blur.
I might forget the joyful souls we were,
and why I chose this one to be my mate.
If lightsome be, let that mean 'full of light'
lighter than air, and flying, is my heart.
And the thought that someday he and I must part
is pestilence, pollution, rot and blight.
Twenty years I chose him, day by yes;
sixty more I'd wish for, more or less.