I wiped my shoes in the grass.
The light was going.
Day was flowing out and down
below the blue-black drape.
I left my shoes on the porch steps.
The stiffness in my hands and legs reproaches me.
I ask no deity's aid.
My comfort is in her arms.
The scent of her hand lotion,
the feel of her skin against my cheek,
the green of her eyes,
these things are enough truth for me.
The woman she is becoming
is in motion
with the man who is sprouting
from a pair of mud-caked shoes.