The Joys Of Aging
A poem
A poem
Watching the slant of late light
etch pathways of shadow
across the rumpled bedspread.
No hurry to shake the crumbs
from breakfast’s rifled newspaper,
its sheets now lantern-lit vellum.
Holding an old anger’s ache
up to the day’s last amber rays
unravelling its knots, setting it free.
Easing into the opera
of cicada choirs, a hymn
to brew over until dusk’s curtain falls.
This watching, waiting,
breathing with what is
the old plush heart’s lasting cadence.
In fog-sieved stillness,
night’s pearled silence
offers the chance to begin, again.
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