Sonnet For Linda, On Her Birthday

We mark our lives with milestones which are cold and mathematical. Dry almanacs and calendars, we carry on our backs. But heavy numbers perish, once they're told. Our age is almost shameful. If cajoled, we might reveal it, may just tell the truth. Why don't we celebrate remaining youth? Why do we tell off years in terms of "old"? I have another way to measure time. Sensations matter more than months or years, loves lived, loves lost - these are my souvenirs. The old north bridge, our secret meeting-place, warm wind, that pollen "blizzard", that embrace ... these count my life. And I count them sublime.