Young love has, beneath its lusts
And summer nights its own warts
Weeks turn to months that turn
To years that turn to
Mortgages and 2.5 kids.
Young love sputters, sprouts gray hairs
And moves more slowly, a
River birch in autumn trading
Multi-colored leaves for
In between glasses of wine
He might say to her
As if she hasn’t heard it before.
Young love fades, becomes brittle-
Fighting moths from
The back of the closet.
Separately they acknowledge
Teenage lovers from decades before
Where young love was born.
Now it crouches in the woods, cold
And alone, waiting for the
Search party to come and rescue.