In the spring,
Of our lovely memories,
We sat, at The Garden Bench,
We were young,
Full of live and having fun,
The soft gentle hand,
I held, while down on one knee,
Was yours,
The eyes, that shone brightly,
Like northern stars,
Out illuminated,
Only by your smile,
Were yours,
The sweet soft voice,
Accepting my proposal,
without a doubt,
was yours.

That, was ages ago,
Now, the hard wrinkle hands,
You held all these years,
Are mine,
Down on an aching knee,
I whisper softly,
Do you still love me?
With a smile, you answered, yes,
Still flaming embers,
In your soft gentle eyes,
I see,
Through bifocals, just like me,
As we sat, on The Garden Bench,
Once again.

By: William Bonilla.....3/04/03