When twilight pales your umber locks to grey
and lines the apples of your cheeks with care,
takes the wind from your merry laugh, so gay,
and makes your step less sturdy on the stair,
remember this: I loved you from the first,
not for your youthful smile, nor supple limbs,
but instead for your spark, and constant thirst
to seek for substance beyond passing whims.
Who cares what strikes the fancy of the fool
that prizes most, and loves, at just a glance?
The mine is worth more than a single jewel,
whose value is determined just by chance.
For surface beauty is a passing phase;
it blooms in early spring, and then is past.
It will not warm the hearth through winter days,
nor serve as fuel to fire a love that lasts.
05 MAY 2005