Taken aback by a daughter
asking, “What is it like
to be old?” I couldn’t say.
Still giddy at seventy
I was not old enough.
“ When I know I’ll tell you,”
I said, and waited to see.
Past ninety now, more of time
reaming the flesh of my years,
I think to answer her,
“Oldness is a puzzle, Pat.
It mirrors days making years,
and alters consciousness,
but it is not as it seems.
It isn’t just appearance
receding as Goethe said.
Bodies deteriorate
in heart beats and eye blinks,
but, gripped by a riptide,
we are pulled to ourselves.
Our bodies sense death
as we play peek-a-boo
with life, sipping its nectar,
more quasi-butterfly
than imminently dying things.
The aging try to express
the experience of aging,
but oldness is the sharp edge
of a mysterious situation
that teeters over a void
and cannot be described.
The issue is termination
of a body’s incarnation.
It asks for close attention,
urges gratitude for the day,
making peace with tigers,
and reading and writing
of the comings and goings
that pierce the heart,
as we move ever onward
toward full consciousness:
souls wanting infinitude.
The Self that speaks me
is young as eternal spring.
That is the Self I am, Pat.
It is bodies know age.
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