When the years have bent our shoulders
and the autumn finds our hair,
when the garden we once tended
needs a gentler, slower care—

hold my hand across the table
in the ordinary light,
hold my hand through every morning
and the long, familiar night.

Love is not the grand gesture,
not the firework or the feast,
it is you beside me always,
even when the loving's least.

Hold my hand—that is the poem,
hold my hand—that is the song,
hold my hand and I am home here,
hold my hand, and I am strong.
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