So It Came to February

I wonder if I will be as grateful in age

as I am now, with you;

if I will hold promises to honor you

as we winnow down to aches and illness,

defined less by appetite, by humor

than vagaries of habit and conceit.

I honor memory as few are able.

It is my substance.

I loved you first

as bright sun upon a beach,

as light lingered in a café afternoon,

at your languid, easeful stretch into sleep.

It is my wish, at once wistful and reasoned,

to live with you last, and always.