It's that time
When bones are the only thing
That gets hardened,
Except for maybe the mind,
In those places
where looking out
at the world
becomes
a numbing
experience.

How strange
That just then
At this old heart's
Failure to quicken,
That birds, bees and flowers
Re-enact the ancient,
yet always just now,
Renewal of life's
Surging waves,
thrusting
Into the shores
Of earth's fertile openings.

That this tired old heart
Would respond
With such elasticity
Bouncing back as if recoiling
At the horror
Of the passing years.
No loss of control though,
No losing it to something other,
Only the loss of my sense of proper behavior.
Old age seems to allow forgetfulness and even
forgiveness of that.