Dave Bonta's "Aging" is a short, compressed poem that sneaks up on its subject. Instead of describing old age directly, it offers a few quick images and lets them add up. The "silver" that "we" share most likely points to grey hair, which would make the speaker part of a group who have reached the same stage of life. The phrase "unwilling awn or arm" is more puzzling. An awn is the bristle on a head of grain, so the line seems to set a plant and a human limb side by side, both stiff or reluctant as they age.
The last stanzas narrow the world down: a "one-bard street," a "one-off song," and finally the speaker with his wife in the garden. The repeated "one" suggests something small, singular, and precious. The mood feels quiet and accepting, even tender. Aging is noticed, with a little reluctance, but it ends in companionship and an ordinary, peaceful place.