Forty-five reads well the book of life,

Open somewhere in the muddled middle.

Reading does, of course, allow one space

To putter round the self, at least a little.

Yet yearning cuts through solace like a knife.

For now she is the mother and the wife,

Intensely joyful, rich with hard-earned grace.

Vested in the moment, life’s a riddle;

Eventually, each moment finds its place.

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