I Sit With The Afternoon Thoughts of an Old Poet.

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 a universe of which you

Are a part.

It’s just like it was then.

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