Window on the past

Soft, and slow,
but with a will that speaks
to their once great strength,
your aging hands hold each other, or
scratch at a spot on your nose, where
the surgeon cut away the sun's torture.

Your back porch a sunlit garden - your Eden.
So serene, the surrounds beg for all to slow,
but I wonder if behind the quiet façade your mind runs
to people and places of the past.

It appears I have roused you with my greeting,
and you reply that it is warm in the sun and
you will be coming in soon.