What A Relief

We don't at all talk,
Eighty-five years old,
All I do is walk;
To door in the cold.

Age sixty-seven,
I will be this year,
Doing what Heaven
Wants prayers in God's ear.

Newspaper I get
From road to her door,
So she won't get wet,
There is nothing more.

I can do for her,
That's better than that.
She loves it for sure,
Mornings where it's at.