weariness

How wearying love; it dies on the vine,
demands
Too much of us or we of it
whether
Luck, passion or merely a fling
it drags us
Uncertain, a kite on a string
buoyed up
On unexpected gusts of wind
that seem
Momentarily eternal
until
The pressure falls, or dinner calls,
you hear
A familiar voice beside you cruel
and shrill
Insisting there are many kinds
of fool;
Parent, child, a household pet,
an old
Friendship or a fond regret,
a mate
(if we're fixed up for good may god
forfend);
Autumn leaves are beautiful
no less
Than April buds (or the golden bough
we chained
So willingly to finger, mind
and neck).
Winter is the harbinger
of Spring
Though our seasons do not return
nor tilt
Our girth to the perennial round
nor ebb
Like tides solely to flood again.
The light
We saw in each other's eyes
will dim
The trail's marked out, we cannot turn
away
Nor turn around, nor change our mind,
nor hear
Again our hearts' mutual desires,
the sound
Of laughter, or the infant's cries;
nor tell
Ourselves that anything can live
beyond
The time it takes to learn this and
to know
Our weaknesses, accept them and forgive.