I watched the moments of silver haired lifers.
In a garden of forgotten
and overgrown things.

I could not help but notice the rust of it,
the splinters of it
how thirsty it all was.
Like an old coat of paint
on an old field plow

He would bring her a queen's many flowers
in a wheelbarrow sarcastically too small
stopping and going like Morse code words
always looking three steps away
from 5 O'Clock lemonade
and a porch swing pipe.

But not that stubborn barrow.

It moved with him, supporting that beauty.
A brave thing, a tested thing, a balanced thing.

Through the days they slowly wore
a rut through that garden.
An arching scar left by an underfed tire
All for the smiles of passersby
and the twinkle in an old mothers eyes.

I felt the words on the wind just then
"I hope to find love like theirs one day"
I whispered back
"I hope to find love like that wheelbarrow"
...
one day.