His hair is white now and hers
streaked with gray. Their skin,
once taut and smooth now loosened.
But their hands still fit the other’s,
the light weight so familiar,
infused with a tenderness
that has deepened over decades.
They are made now of over ten thousand
shared dinners, some in candlelight,
some with chaos. They are made now
of over ten thousand mornings
waking together with their fingers entwined.
Made of mountains they’ve hiked
and trails they’ve skied and gardens
they’ve grown and children they’ve raised
and lost and continue to love.
There is a quiet between them now
that holds them in a way words cannot,
a silence they share that is theirs.
With a gesture, they invite each other
to share the changing leaves, the heron
in flight, the pleasing sour scent
of the garden as it dies. They know
that to share the ephemeral
is one of the greatest gifts we are given.
Tonight they share the rose as dusk fades to dark.
Share the softening of their own aging hearts.
She puts her hand into his, and he receives it.
There are vows, yes, but now
they share what can never be spoken.
