I suppose I could page through an old book - poem

I suppose I could page through an old book
or two and cite literary tradition
to prove with bedrock-dry erudition
our lives look the way lives-in-love should look,
but that's no fun. You worry and ask that,
if after ten years of (let me list:
1. Our marriage. 2. Appendicitis
on our honeymoon (forgive me yet?).
3. Four kids, and 4. All the heaped up rest.)
this busy blur, is love passing away?
Nah! I'll quote as text what our bodies say
-- that old soft sigh and patter -- as we undress
ourselves nightly of the daily bump and grind:
So time's passing. All that's passing is time.