To speak of it at this age
as we often do, is to finally admit
that against our natures,
we have, like the two pines out back,
begun to lean on each other,

that branch by small branch,
in ways never expected nor desired,
we have become entangled,
so that now, without thinking,
we reach for each other
when we walk, one hand folding
into the other, or your arm
slipping casually inside of mine,

just as before dinner,
my hands open a jar,
yours dice the onions and tomatoes,
my arm reaches for the flour on the top shelf,
while later in the evening your fingers
apply lotion to the cracks in my face.

This is what we have become,
holding each other when we sleep,
or sitting opposite each other
on a window seat in the afternoon,
your feet tucked under my legs,
the sun above the water,
the pines barely moving together
in a slight wind,
both of us thinking should one fall,
part of the other would surely break.