Headscarf fluttering in the wind,
stockings hanging loose on her vein-roped
legs, an old woman clings to her husband
as if he were the last tree standing in a storm,
though he is not the strong one.
His skin is translucent—more like a window
than a shade. Without a shirt and coat,
we could see his lungs swell and shrink,
his heart skip. But he has offered her his arm,
and for sixty years, she has taken it.