Reading Stories

In your face I read the map of lines
yesterday and tomorrow combined
slowly you turn the pages
with clumsy fingers
as rough and knotted by arthritis
and life
as the bark of the old tree
at the bottom of the garden

Your name is carved there
I know it
even though the carving is
now quite covered with
soft green moss and the passing time

When the summer's long days
turned to blood red fires
we would sit on the bench
and smell the honeysuckle
while the bees carry away the last of the summer wine
you would talk to me
reminiscing, reliving your youth
in times as different from mine
as mine now differs from my daughters'

I see clearly your days passing by
and even as you speak of them with love
I spy the hard reality under the smiles
but then, nothing lasts forever
and love paints everything a soft gold.