We have done what we wanted,
chased our dreams, broken new trail, cooked
over an open fire. We have our lists of promises,
our impossible habits, and more, to comfort us.
Now, with so much behind us,
the trail narrowed to a path,
each moment devoured by memory,
so much heart, the saving graces, all consumed,
we find our way to the dinner table,
where everything is ready for the two of us,
wine, linen, crystal – this grande cuisine,
this feast of promises kept.
Poetry on the run 
congratulations
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luck of the draw…
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“…impossible habits…” always strike me as being at the heart of intimacy (or marriage). Not having had a successful long term relationship myself, that line struck rather deeply–the use of “impossible” being to my mind, those that are difficult to reconcile with the “other” in the relationship. Those habits that get on the other’s nerves, or that eventually get accepted into the routine of life of two people, as time advances (which is the theme of your poem–encroaching time, the leading onward to a path rather than a trail….).
I love the final stanza, and your term “grande cuisine”. Your dinner speaks of something fine, like a dish served by Julia Child. I really wish I had more opportunity to enjoy real French cuisine.
And the final line: “this feast of promises kept” is a lovely ending….which reaches backward in the piece to the “consumed” saving graces…..
Love the circularity, and the image of fine crystal, which I can see…dancing in firelight.
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Ahh, the impossible habits we learn to love, our own, and if lucky, someone else’s.
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