For Wendy

I may not have brought you flowers.
I know I was always late.
You tolerated my moodiness
And my ever-increasing weight.

You said men were like buses,
And you had grown weary of waiting,
Of putting up with my quirks and my fusses,
Though we barely knew we were dating.

Ah, but we weathered the squalls;
Your patience has always been saintly.
And now that old age palls,
Our tiffs are recalled only faintly.

We laugh at youth’s follies and know
The beauty we had sought unaware;
It’s as wide as a calm river’s flow
And as timeless as our years of care.