I go about and read my books
and write my poems
and they congratulate me;
lighting candles, marking the occasion:
40 years married,
a very long time for a marriage
or a war;

I suppose there was a sense of direction,
in the beginning,
or maybe it was luck,
or an angel;
easy promises made
to love & honor;
easy because there was, I suppose,
nothing to lose
and the commitment was agreed to
without hesitation
or reflection;

And yet they marvel
while I don’t know what it is
I’ve done to merit the celebration;

I can offer no answer,
no advice
to those who want to know the secret,
who are sure there is a secret;
I go about and read my books
and write my poems
and say:
Once
I was young,
and now I’m 40 years married.

copyright 2006