At seventy-one, I’ve now encroached on old,
And elderhood (such as I’ve seen in others)
I might pass up, if I could have my druthers,
But that means passing on—I’m not that bold.
By way of joy and creativity,
I would not wish to lose what yet might come,
Even if what was song becomes a hum
And dams constrict what used to flow freely.
What way, then, to adapt to age’s ills,
To take as graciously what may befall—
The sickness, weakness, bleakness, doctors, pills—
As I may do, still hearkening to some call?
Knowing there’s something in me to unfold,
Some tales of good or evil yet untold.