Of Love

Clara Dale sleeps more and more.

The Alzheimer's.

There was a time when dogs were not allowed

in the farmhouse, let alone on a bed.

Now, a stowaway behind the slipping grip of memory,

there comes a certain acquiescence,

a lenience, and a letting go.

Though the cost is high,

there is a measure of peace.

The Old Man stays ever by her,

finding light in even her dimmest of hours.

She is soft in gaze and touch,

but she finds him still with both.

I have known few loves like theirs.

I strive still to find and/or keep the simple joys.

Few things burn hotter than love and anger.

Few things overcome like sorrow and regret.

I look closely at what I come from,

at what flows both before and from me...

I balance and I weigh.

Though the cost is high,

because my price is high...

there is a measure of peace.