The early old

 

I’ve asked your hand to stay in mine,

and you’ve obliged. But that which gives you life

attends me less with every year. Goodbye.

One final dance that never was.

A wave that never hit.

Farewells that never did begin.

All this ended long ago.

How glorious it was.

How messy and how young. How young, how young.

How long ago.

 

Once I grieved the loss of childhood.

Now that grief for something new: the later young is left behind.

Less now about responsibility

than consequence. The early old begins.

Glory to this, too.

Glory to change.

Glory to it all.

The silence and the

I used to play and muck about.

It’s a been a while since then.

I used to sit with God and shout

about the silence and the Zen.

 

Age and strength and passing days

came along and set me right.

And God became a bunch of ways

to talk about the out-of-sight.

 

But still I can’t begin to claim

I know a thing, Amen.

But every year I’m less my name

and more the silence and the Zen.