By Tom Lowman, Army
Writing Type: Poem
Side by side in rocking chairs,
with streaks of silver in once-golden hair,
they sit in the light of a sunny day.
She turns to him in a tender way.
She says, ""The sun is cascading over the sill
like a waterfall, if you will.
A flight of geese is passing near.""
""Ah yes,"" he smiles. ""I hear them, dear.
They're heading south this time of year.
Leaves are crackling, cold winds blow.
I guess they think it's time to go.""
And he whose eyes had long grown dim
could see the pictures she drew for him.
While she no longer could hear his words,
she read on his lips the sounds of the birds.