The bookends binding stories
Of all my married life
Are the arms of my dear husband,
Who held firm without turning loose
Each book of our together years.
From his very first embrace, I knew
That I would be secure within his care.
The loving arms that cradled me,
Then lifted our own little ones
With tenderness beyond compare,
And with Godís wisdom, guided them
To grow up straight and strong.
The journals, one by one, reveal
The ways he carried without complaint
The weight of work and worry
To supply our every need
And keep us free from want,
Along with bringing loveliness
To places where we lived.
The same arms that would brush on paint
To brighten housesí dreary walls,
Would also push a mower and trim the shrubs
And plant and maintain colorful flowers
To beautify our surroundings.
With journals added all along
For every year thatís passed,
These bookends of my husbandís arms
Have lost some of the strength of youth,
But he still holds me, never turning loose.
And I know that Iím secure within his care.
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