Grace

They do not always sit with an easy grace, the aging: in afternoon light, even in October, cracks invade her clear skin, showing in relief, and he knows dismay, seeing her, his own once simple face crowding itself, as when a life within doors runs out of thought. Yet, sober as this renders him, he will not turn away from her to seek some easier play: there is no win or lose, no hunt, no race, no battle. His eyes would disrobe her, for she is to him more than she has been,

and he would know all, even here, as passers pass, not seeing what his eyes see; but he will wait on her clear sign that this is welcome, even from his gaze, for she has known most men hold themselves dear; known too long their avarice that she should shape to their dreams, their ways, their endless drawing round her of sharp lines, their wrapping an arm carelessly round her days, their failing, in this many years, to touch the key moment of her heart, that movement lacking fear when she might freely give, without design.

Placing her hand in his, she shifts and sighs; a not unhappy sound, considering the hour and how late, as well, this man has come to her: five decades they have lived apart, as though all meaning had to be deferred; as though some god, having hated happy hearts, had suddenly relented, offering them this prize.