Not in the stillness, nor the grand,
But in the weave of life’s own hand:
When laughter climbs the ancient stair,
A grandchild’s breath that stirs my hair.

When from the water, sharp and clear,
My winter swim dispels the year,
And every nerve, alive, awake,
Sings with the chill the morning makes.

Or when the road unfolds its mile,
Beneath these feet that still beguile
The years that press, a steady pace
That finds in motion,holy grace.

It is the chord that Brahms unspools,
That rises ,rules, and overrules
The silent spaces in the breast,
And leads the weary soul to rest.

But deeper than the music’s strain,
Or sweat and cold’s relieving pain,
It is the shared,enduring glance
Across the table of romance,
Forty-eight seasons, side by side,
My harbor and my constant tide.
The children grown, their branches wide,
Five blossoms on the tree, with pride.

And underpinning all the light,
The faith that anchors deepest night:
The saving grace, the love untold,
A story more than centuries old.
That lifts my joy from“then” or “there,”
And holds it always,everywhere.

So when am I most happy? Now.
With every breath, this sacred vow:
For all the gifts I did not earn,
A love that makes the spirit burn.