The aging process is well maintained
unlike these morning knees that ask attention
while I climb upstairs to the kitchen;
or these hair follicles that have dried up,
leaving the crop thinner by season,
indicating, finally, there will be no harvest
down at Billy Victory’s Barber Shop.
And the small gland that swells in the dark
and sends me on nightly missions
of such shallow intrigue
is hardly worth my tantrums. Now,
along with dry eye, I’ve developed floaters:
small vitreous detachments that swim
in and out of view, creating misty
landscapes where this phrase should be;
or where the back of my hand should be, which,
contrary to the idiom, I know less and less about.
But sometimes when these eyes look out
under the blue genuine glory of sky,
I’m startled by clarity — taken
to some other side, where Van Gogh
is still painting his swirling saffron stars
and joyous purple irises with that single white
shepherding one,
and I grow grateful for all the little absences
that may yet
help me see.
My oh my oh my.. Stephen, how very wonderful you are.
Thank you Tamara! You are beyond kind.
Yes. I’ve only just discovered him. He had lovely thoughts.
Resonating in my good ear.
Ha! Thanks Joyce.
You make aging sound a gracious bearable thing, thank you my friend.
Thank you for that kindness Ana Lisa!
Happy belated birthday, Steve! You continue to inspire and enchant with both your personhood and poetry. Brendon and I are grateful to have you in our lives!
Thank you dear Mel! That means a lot to me, thankful for you both.
Thank you, Stephen. You make the process of growing old young and beautiful.
Thanks so much for those kind words Elize.
We all grow old; some of us become elders.
Your eldership is showing.
I’ll take that as a good thing. Thanks Sam.