When he covers her hand which is lying
On her lap with his large, heavy hand
And feels his body leaning toward her
On the bench in the nursing home garden,
He feels he is protecting her with his
Entire being that can stride before her,
Although he, like she, can only manage
A step without a walker and must wait
For help to rise from this bench where
He was gently placed in his ninetieth year
Which has brought him close to this woman
Whose delicate hand fits beneath his
Like a pea under a shell in the game
He played with his sister so many years ago.
And if he could speak he would tell her
How her hair, parted like white curtains,
Allows him to imagine that death is only
An opening in light which they can enter
Together, his hand still covering hers,
Though they have never spoken in the warm
Afternoons when he is placed beside her
Before returning to his...
