Age is not so mighty as to dwell upon,
It’s the life led, or air filled with sounds.
All around the shake of a day, a walk,
Your finger lingering under water spilled
From a mountain, the deep of it, and cold.
If I were to tell you to let age go, let
Angle of Repose be our point of
Connection, the sound an owl makes
Deep in the woods, or our travels linking
Us to a found history, then you might
Know that love exists outside of
Tangled sheets, youth’s spark or an ideal.
You might have the honor of which
You desire, to call someone love, someone