#223: December 2, 2006

Don't worry, love--another year is gone
and we've all got our scars. The new gray hairs,
the wrinkles round the eyes, discovered cares
we'd not have dreamed before--and on and on.

We wear the passing hours on our skins,
and etched on bone, and woven like a thread
through muscles; and the more we bear, we dread
their number, like a tally of our sins.

But listen: when in years to come you've grown
quite old and gray, and time holds no more fear
than breath--remember then this poet's soul;
recall its warmth, and think of how, alone
through all these ruthless years, you kept him whole,
whose words and love will conquer death, my dear.