After Sixty Years

"The next time I get married, I want a man
Who talks to me!" she declared. He smiled,
Rocked, and winked at me, as if
In secret knowledge of who manipulated whom.
Their years together seemed as tangible
As the dusty yellow portraits of their babies,
Now themselves gray-haired, as an ancient
China cabinet filled with precious things,
As the water stains on the oyster ceiling
And the wallpaper's faded bouquet pattern.
Their years remaining were fewer now
Than the number of their great-grandchildren.
And in all that time of growing in devoted love
And fervent love of God, was it remarkable
That this still peeved her, and he sits
Smiling, not giving an inch, as if God,
The source and measure of all perfection,
Brings us as far as God wills but leaves us
Just sufficient human fight to make
Our freedom something else that ages in time
With our dying bodies, living hearts, and familiar
Fond surroundings? She loves to talk,
And pauses now to wheeze. "I work all day,"
She says again, "For a man who's quiet as a mouse!"
He smiles and rocks, and looks at her, and looks at me,
And when she died he said to me,
With the same little ornery smile, "I loved to gripe her,
But I loved still more to hear her talk."