We'll be in our garden on a summer evening,
Eating pasta, drinking white wine.
We won't talk all the time. I'll sit back,
Contemplating shadows on the red-brick path,
And marvel at the way it all turned out.
That yellow begonia. Our gabled house.
Later we'll stroll through Kingsgate Park.
My leg won't hurt, and we'll go home the long way.
Asked to imagine heaven, I see us there,
The way we have been, the way we sometimes are.