This Passing Day.

It seems to me that the brittle-bright morning
when we first loved
was the glistening shimmer of dew drop
when momentarily all the world's wealth was ours
and time seemed held in fragile crystal stop.

Now, in this late afternoon,
the sky is still clear and the sinking sun
more intensely beautiful than it was long ago.
Who can know if night will suddenly fall
or day stretch on past midnight
in muted, dimming, surreal twilight.

No matter. Each transient moment is rich with joy
and passing time has been our strange friend,
gifting us a plaited golden cord that twists and entwines,
tying us richly to each other
and to the present, past and unknowable future.

Its threads are love tested and tempered by fire;
children's laughter and tears;
shared faith, a vision of hope of a new day
dawning and dispelling the dark;
entanglement of other lives with ours;
ten thousand thousand little moments
unbreakably wound, twisted and plaited together.

So come, take my hand.
That fragile morning is long gone.
Evening must fall but the stars promise light,
an awakening from the darkness of night.
We have lived and loved together,
shared in glory throughout the long passing day.
Is this not enough? It must be enough.
It is much more than enough.