lillian the home poet

I reach for your hand, my love.
I seem to do that more often as the days age on.
We walk more slowly, notice things more minutely.
Outside our window, that jay,
perched on winter’s shivering branch.
Sky blurs. Sometimes blues to hazy violets.
Sometimes shifting reds to soft shades of orange,
as day slips into night.
There is a truth we cannot deny.
The path ahead
is shorter than the one we’ve tread.
No less glorious, just different.
Each time my hand seeks and finds yours,
there is quiet reassurance.
We are us for another day, another hour,
another moment in time.

Photo taken at our beloved annual sojourn in Provincetown, at the tip of Cape Cod.