Carefully

As the rains return again, she notes, almost in passing, how her strait love remains; how darkness, wind, and sorry days of work and worry cannot shake it. We are not

built to last; we know that. Some speak of life as it were stark tragedy alone, a trudging from diaper to death bed, doomed because end it must. Others try, by seeking

comedic relief, to put such gloom aside, assuming that to live brightly today will, somehow, pay for the pain of barely living later, when last years have but begun.

Her truth: somewhere between. She would, if the gods permitted, lose herself in your eyes every day of forever, but knowing this will end, and relatively soon, makes her not

over-sad, nor will she lie to you now with thoughtless laughter; rather it makes her carefully love you, deeply as she does here, breathing your name in, breathing it out, like prayer.