Our first year turns. Were this another age
I’d have figures ready-made
And wouldn’t have to think up how to say
The sun could warm the world by circling us,
The bands upon our fingers tune the spheres,
Two Adams treat us with a single tree
Whose apple falls through darkness into light.
But it’s been done. Since then the years
Have turned more than two hundred times
Shucking the terms that served more faithful men
Than I was, before I married you. You bring
A warmth and music
Those fond conceits don’t suit, and yet
I would have you know,
Lady,
Wife of my turning years,
There’s never a heathen lout in Christendom
Would not be saved by that fidelity
I bear you pared and glistening, like a fruit.
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