My father was a quiet man whose passion
lay supremely hid behind a manner mild.
My mother's touch caused love to soar
But then he shed tears fierce and wild.
He was just past forty when they married
and not much past fifty when she died.
Their love compressed into so short a time
Grew strong, distilled to essence, intensified.
Not yet twenty-five, she spoke the vows of trust.
It did not count--age not on their side--
the days were meager they had to live together.
Prophets of long and happy life had lied.
I am the only issue of their precious love.
I carry blessings of their life and vow.
It gives me strength to know they valued me.
I reap the harvest of their love till now.
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