Eighteen Years Her Man
After eighteen years, I dared to call myself a man.
I was headed off to college, to learn and understand
The world I thought I held in the palm of my own hand.
Just eighteen years of age, and I thought myself a man.
Now eighteen years have passed since I first called myself her man,
And the wonder that she is I still long to understand.
My grip had proven weak until she offered me her hand,
And without her by my side I would be merely half a man.
These last eighteen years have been far better than the first.
Although we’ve known our share of “for better” and “for worse,”
I still gaze into her eyes and feel my heart about to burst.
Eighteen years have passed and I’m now eighteen years more hers.
My eighteen-year-old follies have all slipped away like sand:
I know the world cannot reside in my poor failing hands.
Yet my world stays in orbit like a golden circling band
Around she who after eighteen years still loves me as her man.