Oh, I could spin you a yarn that would enchant you
with pungent love potions concocted in golden ewers,
conveyed on the heaving backs of magical flying steeds
to eager lissome lovers led to each other by knowing stars.
But the truth is even more magical, more wonderful.
The story is set in a city on streets and in buildings:
as unerringly as ancient stone crafters fit each stone
in Machu Picchu or the Great Pyramids or Stonehenge,
so the letters, choices, drinking laws, decisions
of many people in several cities made it inevitable
that you and I should say hello and all else fall away.
Weather didn’t matter— we, impoverished students,
would walk as close, rain or snow, arm in arm, as we could.
Until here we are, fifty-three and a half years later,
arm in arm participants in our story, that story.
And the weather still doesn’t matter.
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