When I met the woman he loved,
I, the woman with whom he lived
with worn memory and hands
Could only smile with wonder
I could see why he loved her
My weary eyes could trace the years
in the lines of her hand.
I looked at him, and then at her.
His knowing smiles and subtle cues,
her graceful poise and timeless manner.
I could see why he loved her.
My teary eyes could . . .
. . . see the many years in the corners of their mouths
as they smiled in one another's presence.