The Constitutional

We haven’t walked the park

in twenty years. Marriage

will do that sometimes.

My knees, your hips.

Your shoulder, my neck.

I can no longer turn my

head at the sound of the

finch. Your hearing’s

flown the coop—

oblivious to its existence.

It can’t be what it was,

when both our bloods

were surging under sun.

Time may not regress

with our feeble tread,

but maybe we’ll

awaken evocation—

ours as well as its.

Nestle your hand in mine—

the other one, my darling ,

which lacks a

diamond band,

naked not ornate.

We’ll stroll afresh

for the very first time,

a golden wheel above us,

faithful in its wander

day-by-day,

alighting everything it

must to learn of love.

Andreas Gripp

November 26, 2025

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