SONNET

Perhaps some loves will drink the April light

And die before the summer’s sun has shone;

Perhaps some loves may mushroom in a night,

Flourish a few bright moments, and be gone.

Some loves will bed like saplings in good soil

Yet soon be stricken by the lightning’s stroke,

Leaving their monument of grief and toil

In the scarred forking of the wood which broke.

Our love has grown like a maturing tree

Producing year by year green urgent shoots;

Deep in its soil we feel but cannot see

The broadening and grasping of its roots;

Each day I find in you, and you in me,

The suppleness and richness of its fruits.