Late love

Hello friends, love has stages. Early infatuation gives way to deeper affection. At the last there is fondness, which seems like a simple thing but is a total understanding of the daily bond. I try to express this in my poem “Late Love,” and how aging has given me the opportunity to enjoy no special demands, no expected gifts. I am learning in my 90s to enjoy the simple inter-connectedness of things. Can this be love? Of course. We spend our lifetimes thinking love is one thing, when it is everything. As Lao Tzu expressed it, “Love is a decision. Not an emotion.” Thanks, Gene

 

Late Love

This morning as I walked up the driveway,
I chatted with a friend wren
back and forth: “Teakettle, teakettle,”
almost as fine as picking up the Times.

In the shadows of late life,
my world seems to shrink:
fewer people, more time for things to love
that used to pass without a wink.

I love my wife in deeper, different ways,
even with spats enough yet leaning
on each other, and aware of cat Tony
helping her adjust my CPAP mask.

There’s the love of the crape myrtle
in full red bloom lining the road.
No special demands, no expected gifts
except water from the sky or a garden hose.

There’s even a special affection for four poets
who gather weekly for coffee
and kindly critique of our new poems.

Most of their arrows are gathered with thanks,
but some are resisted from self-love
and a need to clash swords, maybe driven
by ancient games of manhood.

In my twilight, I’m willing to park the car
for a love walk among flowering brethren
in the botanical garden, ready for a selfie,
while I still can.

At home I rescue an old roach from the bathtub,
to join yesterday’s daddy long-legs
among the succulents.