I Am Old

There is a scab

on my head,

a sore

on my toe,

my knees ache

and my grip is so bad I can no longer open jars.

I am old.

I forget things

and lose things

or even,

just abandon things

freeing them to make their own way in the universe.

I am old.

People on the street

remind me

of different people

I knew in other times

who lived, and sometimes died, far away, and long ago.

I am old.

No longer careful

of my make-up

or sure that my gray

is properly dyed

A clean shirt is as dressed up as I get, shoes are formal attire.

I am old.

I can play in the dirt

build dams out of mud

chase birds

and sail boats in puddles

I feed the butterflies, who bounce over my flowers like bits of my soul on holiday.

I am old.

and some days

that is enough.

 

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2 Comments

  1. ittymac said,

    April 25, 2014 at 1:44 am

    Some days being old is pure bliss!! I love this poem. 😊


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