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.
AT SEVENTY-TWO
Comments
3 responses to “AT SEVENTY-TWO”
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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.
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Great poem Cindy. You’re young to me too. We have a few years left.
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Good point!
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