On Becoming Old
There may come a time when I no longer hope
to ride like the wind, swim like a fish,
skate for the gold, as when my spine and will were young.
Still, I shall look at the fire atop my cake
and think of toasting marshmallows.
I shall dream and pray and write simple words
of delight and appreciation to my friends,
and maybe not even friends.
I shall realize the purpose of failure, loss
and lessons learned and, most of all, conviction,
for it is not what we know of the world
but what we believe about ourselves,
with mercy, faith, courage, and resolve.
I shall not hide in the attic or cower in the basement.
I shall crack the spine of speckle-covered notebooks,
and smell the glue before I patch the teacup.
I may forget the names of things,
but words like more, again, and still
shall remain engraved upon my spirit.
I may also forget what I cannot do,
for what is left of me is so much more than was here
in the half-full wholeness of my youth.