Fifty truly is a grand old age,
each day we rise, the turning of a page.
Our lives inscribed but chapters fade to grey,
the denouement unknown until that day.

Amanda stands before me as a dream,
Now seven squared plus one for luck it seems.
How can this be? The years so fleet. And yet...
she looks exactly like the day we met.

That day, in Mitchell County long ago,
with zany Z. and ever steady Mo.
Our weekends spent in mild debauchery,
filled with sounds of breaking pottery.

Our wedding day with love and lots to eat,
they used your parasols against the heat.
The spiral dance, a joyous happy day.
The photos came out good, or so they say.

Those villianous piggies the Hospital Co. of America
rapaciously swindle with balderdash and esoterica.
You say there are still lots of great things about your position,
but remember to always be ready to retain volition.

Each day's commute reveals another pain,
but I think of you to pacify my brain.
Your car returns you from the Pleides,
from table tennis, speaking Japanese.

Some day I dream we'll find us undefeated,
our juggling routine properly completed,
Still juggling work, commitments, memory gaps,
life and health and lots of cozy naps.

(Most verses in iambic pentameter, one in dactylic pentameter)
Background Image: Someone35 [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons