Starting to go

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.



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