To some you dedicate your poems, to others you can offer only your life,
My poems may not mention her, but she's there in the background- my wife.
For how can poems of love and pain flow, or even those of hope and despair,
Unless you are moored to solid earth, and left to explore themes fair and square.
To write an ode to her seems odd, as if praising one's own self,
I've become much like her, and she like me, the fusion we can't help.
As we age with grace, we'll merge even more, or so the research says,
With her as my mirror, I'm always ready, to embrace the golden days.
There's magic in the bond we share, but it requires a sleight of hands,
Because we put efforts, over the years, the trick with elegance lands.
I err at times, don't pull my weight, yet you ignore my quirks and flaws,
Like the Savitri you are ever ready to snatch, me from the death's jaws.
The poet in me, can hardly die, if your birthday is near the midnight stroke,
I offer just my wishes and presence, for aren't poets supposed to be broke?
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