I sit with the afternoon thoughts of an old poet. I am no longer a young poet. If you’re not a young poet, you’re an old poet. Whoever heard of a middle-age poet? Middle-age is something invented By people who don’t know how to Grow old. To be old is to have the power of insight That having seen it all before Gives to the imagination of tomorrows Not yet known. To be old is to be there for those Who do not have enough yesterdays To know the difference between wisdom, dreams, Reality, hopes, and fears—There isn’t any. I recall now the old ones—many now dead, Who held my hand, or touched my shoulder, Or winked, or laughed at just the right moment To catch my youthful eye and make me pause— Or I might have gone over the edge. The wisdom of age comes not From the power and drive of youth Creating life and building worlds. The wisdom of age comes From those moments When you pause Overwhelmed by the immensity Of