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His strong arm wraps her frail, labored shoulders
Together they whisper against the clear, glass wall
All pain has passed, and they behold an answered prayer
A glorious blossom that has been entrusted to their hands
The child in the bed has a smile of morning 
They know but still they ask – Is she the one?

The voices crouch upon the bedroom windowsill
looking in from the night with curious eyes
Their fairy hands clasped together as though in prayer
Watching the rosy dreams that float above the girl
whose sleepy sighs breathe through the room like a song
With pressed fingers, they think – Is she the one?

He holds the black and white photo with his fingertips
as though when touched with flesh it might fade away
like the ending of a perfect dream, that lasts, in memory
yet hangs like aurora lights – there but not there. 
Raven-black eyes kiss the sweet face in the picture
and written on his sighing lips – Is she the one?

She is like a willow, he, the poet resting in her shade 
Bound with much more than two golden rings
It is long since they have given oaths of eternal love
But not once have their hearts stepped away from each other
With eyes made one they watch their child wreathed in lilies
Unspoken are their words – Is she the one?

He has been at the bedside for the past ten days
He has been beside her for the past fifty years
Wrinkled hand holds wrinkled hand, together tender
The sweet face, now lined and creased, is more than beautiful
He remembers the old picture, the love-wrought words
A smile recalls them – Is she the one?

Above them, unseen, the voices have returned
The slender lights that have always watched her 
through the years from the beginning, and now at the end
Their eyes are wet, but they have come to fetch the soul,
her innocent heart to take away in their fairy hands
Like music are their words – Is she the one?
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