Nothing really prepares us for old age, it’s a mystery kept from the young, to prevent their discouragement.
Like an ebb tide after a full moon
life starts to slip from its highpoint
and flotsam begins to show.
Expectation has proven false;
that age rewards with feelings of fruition,
a comforting sense of completion.
Mottled, loose skin our graduation gown,
disowning past tautness, those tensions
of tightly focused aims with expectations.
When was self-importance lost —
that ambitious driving force of ego?
Gone, effortlessly replaced by habit.
Strands, just disconnected strands
where weave and weft were wanted
and a pattern was expected.
Unremembered words slip away
with no urge to call them back
detail is the moment.
