62. Senescence

In the dying light of day,
your face is as charmed as it was
the first day we met –
Wrinkles have not diminished
the twinkle in your eyes
or the hairs which glow golden in the light
as you raise your arms around me.
Crow’s feet and laugh lines
are mere ghosts of the joys we have
shared; that one there
must be from when we visited
Italy.

A thousand romances we could have;
I could invent a thousand scenes
in which you feature, ageless.

I am here in the dying light of day,
alone:
an unseasonable chill
frosts my weary bones;
I have worked all my life
in a career where I have served
only others
and now must prepare
for fall.
I am cold,
so cold.