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.
Comments
Post a Comment