I drank a toast on Christmas Day—
a toast to you, my musical bride,
and to your life, so grave, if brave;
improper it seemed, but also right.
Our story seemed a fairied myth
and one we never chose or dared.
So when you died at forty-five
I deemed it neither right nor fair
that I should venture on while you—
as with the cloud that spawns the rain—
should play no part in downstream deeds
except in stories of glorious pain.
Yet I have learned in latter days
that I’ve defined the journey wrong:
You still remain within this tale—
one note of your eternal song.