This week's poem is dedicated to my Mother and Father. I had intended to feature this classic work last Sunday night, June 13, which happened to be their 70th wedding anniversary. But I forgot. No, I didn't forget their anniversary. I forgot that I had intended to feature this poem when their anniversary came around. I have always loved this poem because I have associated it with my parents' long, wonderful love affair ever since my father bought my mother a recording of it being recited on a 78 RPM record sometime in the 1950s.

Their neighbors in St. Petersburg, Florida had an anniversary party for them last April, since most of them are "snow birds" who fly North in the early spring, so would not be around on the actual date of the anniversary. I flew down for the party and am going down again next week to celebrate my father's 92nd birthday, which was yesterday. My mother will be 89 in August, and at their age, it isn't as important that I be there on the exact day as it is that I show up as often as I can, which I do. I love them both very much. But it is the love they have for each other in these autumn days of their lives that is so wonderful to witness. Ms. Browning counted the ways.