Me? I don’t THEENK so!
In less than a month, on glorious St. Patrick’s Day, I’ll turn seventy-two. SEVENTY. TWO. It boggles my mind, especially when I look into the mirror and see an old lady looking back at me. Most days, I still think of myself as young. Barely an adult. Then I remind myself that I wasn’t cast for a permanent run as Sweet Young Thing, and start thinking about all the things I want to do in the time allotted to me. Of course, I’ll have to live to be 134 to accomplish half of them. 😉
I’d like to hear how you good folks feel about aging. How do you deal with the new aches and pains, for instance? I have good days and bad days. Sometimes I spend part of the day grousing that nothing looks the same as it used to look, nothing works as well as it used to work, and some things aren’t even in the same PLACE they used to be. What’s up with that? I purely hate it when my parts stop working before I’m done with them, too! (Eyes and ears come to mind, immediately.) But by and large, I’m blessed to be doing as well as I am, and enjoying the heck out of my writing and meeting readers in central Florida. Life is good, for the most part, and I know I’m a lucky lady.
In honor of growing older, here’s a poem I wrote while contemplating my 70th birthday, now long gone by. Hope you enjoy it! 🙂
On the River
Crystal green flows beneath me,
Leafy arches rise above,
Duckweed parts as I float by.
I wonder where they went,
Gone overnight, it seems.
Another parting, another loss,
And I slide by,
Under all that green.
Just there, in deepest shade,
Sleeping emeralds cling.
Tree frogs rest in their
Smooth, damp skins
Waiting for the silver moon.
They’ll open their eyes for the silver moon.
As I pass by.
With arms raised to that same moon,
I once danced along the shore,
Young and wild and full of joy.
Moving to music
That stirred my soul,
And washed in that pale light,
Years ago, in that pale, pale light.
I remember it all,
And so much more,
As I slide by.
A scaled ribbon of vivid lime
Scribbles across my bow,
Curving by in his own silent slide.
I smile at Dickinson’s “narrow fellow”
Tasting the air with his tongue of flame.
I feel no “zero at the bone” for him,
For I have known far worse than he,
With a nod of my head,
I pass him, too.
And on I go.
Time and time and time goes by,
And still, green fronds protect me from above,
Green water lifts me from below,
Carrying me ceaselessly on my way.
Slower, now that Youth is gone,
Yet, sometimes a froth of foam and spray
Reminds me of those early days,
When all the water rushed clear and cold,
And teemed with Promise so bright
You could almost catch it in your hands.
That bubbling spring where it all began,
Now lies so far behind.
Far behind, and long ago,
While I move on.
One stroke at a time,
The only path from Here to There.
One stroke following another,
And I, all the while,
Still cherish the trees above,
The water below.
I wonder as a turn grows near,
What adventures wait beyond the bend?
Will they make my heart beat fast again?
How many shimmering curves lie before me yet?
How long does my river flow?