by Thomas Davis
As middle age begins to creep
into the muscles of the heart,
the lyric impulse starts to die,
and words that blinded with their flash
and dazzle start to plod and groan
inside their cage of sentence-flesh.
Still, love is still as bright, my love.
Its fires are not as blazing hot,
nor are its rhythms quite as full
of cleverness and silk delight.
Its rhythms lengthen out to merge
with other rhythms pulsing life
and time and thought and loving moods.
I love you still; it’s you I love.
The lyric’s gone, but still, we love.