The Difference

It is not glands

or tenor of voice

or fire in the eye

as she first thought.

In middle years

she learned

it was not what was funny

or what was important
or who did the most
or who was right

or who won.

She now knows

it is the disquiet
at the end of the day

while she welcomes the sunset,
enjoys the meal and then

so easily slips beneath

the quilt.

It is the need to walk

the yard in winter

planning the land

and hauling the wood

while she reads poetry

quietly in the corner chair
in the sun
anticipating spring.

It is waiting for the

phone to ring

or waiting for the

new news

or opening the mail,

While she sips tea

or red wine

and watches the same

mystery on TV once again

or enhances the photo

of her grandchild.

It is trying to change the ending

versus acceptance of the certain.