Sixty Summers

Sixty summers, the same warm hands,

you taught me grace I still don't understand —

from kitchen radios to the front-porch light,

you've been the melody holding the night.

So here's to you, the quiet kind of brave,

every birthday candle, every wave —

if love were a song it would sound like this,

a sixty-summer kind of bliss.

You still call me 'chief' when I get it wrong,

and somehow that's where I belong;

the calmest person in any storm,

the reason the whole house feels warm.