Much about aging is waning odds on a roll of dice,
Things they don’t ask you to lift,
A few more bicycle rides avoiding the hills
And a recurrent fatigue that throws a sudden pall.
Easy to get maudlin about it and sit sad
On the grumbler’s bench, or fake bonhomie
With thumping bravados of not me, not me,
Embracing the lame heroics of futile dreams
I read old journals as a museum of myself,
Albums of smiles, joys, struggles and pain,
A kind of vibrant wrestling with the unfinished,
Not knowing how it will turn out.
As the flooded river moves slow against purple-gold
Clouds repainting themselves at the dimming of day,
I circle the stone labyrinth behind my house,
An invitation to heed beloved ashes at the center.
From: “The Hum of It All”
“Poems from a Personal Journey”
(more poetry and aging blog)