The Couple on the Park Bench

The elderly couple sitting on the park bench
Lean into each other as they quietly whisper,
So as not to disturb the air, scare the chipmunks
or drive away the pigeons that they love to feed,
They visit softly as they comment on the foliage.
His eyesight failing, he sees it as Monet would
Paint it, as blurred yet vibrant impressions of color.
She sees more clearly, brilliant orange, reds and yellows,
Leaves that seem to burst into flame as the light
Shatters its brightness upon them and seems to ignite
Blazes that loom over the fading frost-touched grass.

Their was a time when their passion burned that strong,
A time when her slightest touch, or even just her
Presence could arouse an excitement and desire in him
That frightened him at first by its intensity.
His need was so great; her power over him so complete.

Now he puts his arm around her, and she'll brush his cheek
Just slightly with her fingertips, or reach to hold his hand.
Their fingers intertwine as they watch the first fall
Flutter of leaves let go and float to the ground,
Soon to become the brittleness that precedes fall decay.
They feel the brittleness of age in their own bones as well,
But they derive comfort and reassurance from each other.
They wrap themselves in the downy comforter
Of companionship and shared memories, and nestle
Closer to each other as winter approaches.