POEM - Lesson Of The Ages

My icy hands are warmed by yours,
When winter comes to claim them;

“You have no blood,” you say to me,
“Take my hand, it will suffice.”

The split loose-leaf lines of your face,
bunch all over mine as well;

My balloon-like paunch is your
Pillow at night, my skin,

The blanket we fight over
While we are asleep at night;

Your arthritic hands crack
A samba beat for me when

You make lunch, just so I can eat.
These spots on my hands are where

You first kissed me, before we kissed
On the lips and sealed the deal,

Dotted the I’s and crossed the T-s.
These droplets of chocolate

Love, were all the sweet we craved.
Your graying hair - confection -

As we braved the diabetes
Of our relationship.

My burgeoning scalp pushing
Through trampled grass of my hair.

I become the wishing charm
You rub whenever you need a wish.

We are bound tight to each other by
Wilting shadows of young eyes;

Like ivy clinging for dear life;
Your infirmities are mine; mine, yours.

I nightmare, and you awaken,
In a deeply set panic.

Love, in this age, my dear, is not
The labor everyone thinks.

It is a concoction: (one part fool,
One part artistry, one part mule)

That allows us to withstand
Many things, replenishing

With the joy that we both set out
To garner at the outset.