The Fine Art of Aging
Some days these fingers ache when holding my writing lead
or perhaps it’s my soul keening, wallowing in woe,
How much more must a heart spill with words in black repose
Does not your fingers bleed when grasping too tight the memory of the thorny rose?
Some days these legs falter when I first rise from bed,
with joints stiff and old, cold misery in tainted dawn
remembering lost days of fresh bloom, I mourn
Did I not see my blessings, for my youth was forlorn?
Some days this heart of mine skips a beat with dread
as I gaze upon my weathered face with another line
I remember the smoothness of my skin so sublime
Why didn’t I care more, knowing it must endure for life?
Yet, here in this moment of time, I thrive with my aches, pains, and regrets
for I am grateful and blessed, I can still see with my eyes, and take a breath.
©2018 Linda Lee Lyberg