On Starting Late

Sometimes at night I listen to you breathe,
And dream of what you were at seventeen.
My foolish eyes, Miranda-wide, must prise
A mooncalf in the backdrop to the scene.

Not that I could love you, younger, more
Than in the majesty of adult pride;
But every day that cuts off then from now,
I would, and know I was not, at your side.

We meet at last, halfway from dust to dust;
No nearer journey's start than journey's end;
Yet let us swear, as fingered souls entwine,
Our journeys shall not be alone again.

Yet let us swear, with failing tongues and talk,
As camels pant in weary caravan
Along the lonely silk road of the heart;
Our journeys shall not be alone again.

Yet let us swear, with stinging, sand-wet eyes,
Nor whether wealth or ruin be road's end,
Through lips gone dry and after love's mirage:
Our journeys shall not be alone again.

-- Stephen K. Roney