The Music of Our Love

Best it is not to remember all

that love has lived in thousands before us,

nor to fear that ours shall fade

as theirs once did.

Poor heart wrapped in golden threads,

to think myself most lonely beneath the sun,

when you, gentle soul — are near!

Your song and voice is mercy,

your finger and touch a psalm upon my skin.

I have no wound but longing,

no pain but the ache of joy;

two hands I have still,

to hold, to cherish, to build our days,

to pull you near.

“Think not of what is past,” you whisper,

“Let us dwell only in the Now 

for who can tell what Tomorrow will bring,

save that it shall find us side by side?”

Then through the hush of evening

there came a breath, a tremor soft 

the wind itself seemed to speak your name in quiet whisper.

Surely it was your soul calling mine,

faint and musical, saying,

“We are happy here.”

And the great waves of music rose around us,

as though Heaven itself had chosen that hour

to bless our beginning 

and in that solemn light,

I knew Love was my first and final faith.