SARAH STILL
(To hear Shelley recite this poem, click here.)

It was a while ago when she and I
decided to, what the hell, go gray,
and we have liked ourselves this way,
in comfort with the narrowing of choice.

Walks are shorter. She, bad knee and all,
an athletic shopper of bewildering ease
as I follow breathless on two good knees,
in comfort with the making of our days.

In whispers at bedtime we slo-mo the day,
old laughter, new gossip, habits of years,
sworn to one bed and easy kiss-away tears,
in comfort with the nourishing of time.

Sunday night in bed—the NY Times
crossword: I the pencil, she the mind,
I the factotum, she the resigned,
in comfort with the knowing of our joy.