After thirty years, she knows
he will speak with his mouth full.
He knows her stomach will gurgle
in the silence before they sleep.
He will set the table.
She will water the plants.
He will wash the windows.
She will dust the piano.
After thirty years, she still thrills
when he sits close on the couch
and rests his head on her shoulder,
then sighs aloud and closes his eyes.
She loves when the moment lasts.
In the mornings, he will look at the clouds
and tell her the direction of the wind,
what it means about the storm.
She will walk up to him with open arms
and hold him there, in the middle
of the kitchen. There will be no music.
It may look as if they are standing still,
but it’s part of a long and intricate dance,
a dance they are still learning,
a dance no one else can teach them.
See how they step back, how they spin,
how they step in toward each other again.