He said one day when we are old, we—
and his saying so was pure joy
for even as we savored last summer’s berries
in our mouths, forced the juice from the pulp
with our tongues, we knew:
one day, he will be bent—perhaps away from me—
or I will ask him to tally the chain of days
we have made and ask him more than once.
Then again, it could be
he said nothing at all.
Perhaps I only saw him him rise to open a window
to listen to twilight’s breeze rustle aspen.
And just this morning,
didn’t he fill a vase of lisianthus with fresh water?