Dear God, please forgive my vain imaginings.
It seems to me the epitome of symmetry,
The way that youthful beauty in our vague beginnings
Gradually recedes to ghostly courtesy.
As my countenance resigns itself to tiny lines,
My lover’s eyesight fades to far and away.
If, in youth as in the middle, love is blind,
Then the figurative is made flesh in wisdom’s doorway.
Also deaf and can’t remember well,
Love sleeps in and doesn’t mind the snoring.
With gratitude and faith, I dare tell,
Love is smooth and satisfied like purring.
And so, dear God, I thank thee for thy humor.
Blind as all that, me and my baby boomer.