Eighty-one and counting

It was bright moonlight this morning, enough that we didn't need a night light to see our way around.  I remembered a line from the poem, Loveliest of Trees, and when I got around to writing my poem (Nita still abed) this came fairly easy.

Anticipation

                    Now of my threescore years and ten,

                        Twenty will not come again.

                              —A. E. Housman

                                       

In my case four times twenty years have come. 

Eighty snows, eighty springs, buds and blossoms

faded, gone.  Sunrise, moonset, through the trees

no one could be happier with these

than I as I await the Eastertide

with you, my sweetheart, three score years my bride.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        6 February 2012