Forty-one years, and still your hand in mine Makes ordinary hours turn to gold. We did not ask each day to be divine; We made a life worth loving as we grew old. Some dreams took root; some drifted out of view. We weathered grief and learned what joy could bear. Yet every road led home again to you, And wonder waited in the life we shared. If time should grant us nothing more than this— One quiet room, your laughter, evening light— I’d call these years a long, unfolding kiss, And reach for you again to say goodnight.