Sixty Years Wed

Grownups

"Sixty Years Wed"

(a sonnet)

We own two coats, a thousand books, a yard.
We buy milk by the quart, drive cautiously.
We phone the grandkids, feed the birds, play cards,
Eat chocolate candy while we watch TV.

My thumbs can’t grip; your frozen legs can’t walk.
I bring you soup; you open jars stuck tight.
In bed we hug and sleep and kiss and talk
And no more. But our bodies touch all night.

When we were new, we danced and saved each dime,
Raised babies next, vacationed, ran our race.
These days I count us blessed to yet share time,
And when I lunch with friends, I miss your face.

Although I meant the vows I spoke before,
Six decades on, I love you even more.

Written for my parents, Cele and Alan Stark, in 2007. Miss you, Dad.