Moonset

Come, love, and let the seasons take their course
and etch their stubborn markings on our skin;
the fountains of our youth exhaust their source.
The end, though not yet near, knows to begin.

Wine doesn't taste the same -- a stronger brew
is needed to affect a certain glow.
Old jokes are funny -- harder with the new.
Our bodies fighting age, but blow by blow,

they're losing -- hope to last till latter rounds,
but in the meantime, put up a good fight.
Oh, not as dire as that, don't make those sounds!
The day, it may be over, but the night

is plush, dark velvet, and the hunter's moon
is glorious, so let's not leave too soon.