When they were a young couple
they often squabbled like children,
found more hidden lint balls
than music in each other, yet
they were the tree branches
swinging in the wind, tangled
together, inseparable,

as the middle age rolled in their old habits
whittled away, overlooked the furrows of
wrinkles, watched in awe the wispy clouds
of graying hair,

with the midlife slips to the threshold
of golden years, their hearts tend to
skip beating at each other’s pain, smile at the
tufts of hair out growing of his ears or
at her spotty hands like quail’s egg,

after all the years of
arduous hills and
treacherous rivers,
they’ve turned to the
couple of doves, cooing,
perched on their favorite branch
in the late afternoon sun.

According to statistics, nowadays nearly half of all the marriages fail. Divorce is necessary for some, while others can be worked out. Some I leaned through their stories are heartwarming that I wanted to write the tributary lines for them.

By Byung A. Fallgren