At 72, it takes two tries
to get each foot into my jeans.
I wobble and catch myself
against the closet shelf.
At 72, I nap each day
enjoy my dreams
scary or complex, puzzles
to ponder in waking hours.
At 72, it seems absurd
that I remember a child’s
great great grandmother.
I'm a walking history text.
At 72, my 87-year-old friend
says I am young. I should
not fret but get to work.
I have another 20 years.
At 72, I think of poems
unwritten, songs unsung
and return to my desk.
The day is young.
Like this:
Like Loading...
This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing. When I was 48, I mentioned to my 84 year old drum teacher that I was old. He told me that I was just a kid. At 65, I understand.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great poem Cindy. You’re young to me too. We have a few years left.
LikeLike
Good point!
LikeLike