The (im)perfect journey

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They sat to break a breath, at that corner

His silver hair gleamed in a ponytail

She held herself steady at the waist

They leaned forward again, to speak in murmurs

 

He recalled footsteps that had been firmer

She clutched his arm as she stood in pain

Purposefully, nudging pebbles into a pattern

They sat to break a breath, at that corner

 

His accumulated medals adorned walls

He drew his life in trace lines on a map

Trembling scribbles of traveled lanes

His silver hair gleamed in a ponytail

 

Her character spoke through her distinct tastes

She wove the scent of flowers into her colorful throws

Beading baubles on laughter strings

She held herself steady at the waist

 

Their cherished story is of the party with drummers

They relish their tea as much as arguing over theories

The vastness and vigor that has been acquired together

They lean forward again, to speak in murmurs

 

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One thought on “The (im)perfect journey

  1. “Ripe ness is all”
    Shakespeare said these memorable words
    Your description of old aged husband and wife speak in volumes about Ripeness in old age
    Papa

    Like

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