Oh, To Be Old>

Oh, that I could just be old and at long last done with it. Snuggled down in my wrinkled, scarred, flesh, in a bentwood rocker, watching sunsets on a porch, just south of nowhere beyond the insanity of yet. Watching life spin onward without my contributions, through eyes that blur it's hard core edges. In rumpled hair with toothless grin, every vanity forsaken. Kids all grown up, and raised successfully, all other droll duties completed, grandchildren softly giggling eighth notes as they dance around my feet. Holding hands with my best decision who always was, and still is, a love more comfortable then an old, soft quilt, or a June nap hammock bound, or kisses that are planted gently on a fevered brow. Here we'll Remain as sexy as those first nights we sang out passionate odes, to our warm glowing honeymoon, hung over endless paths yet traveled. In flannel shirt, over brushed linen trousers, my slippers flapping ancient rhythms as we go creaking off to bed. Oh, that I could just be old, skipping all the toils ahead. Dreams die so much harder when you're young, hope spends years frayed at the seams. Old is a cottage by the sea all baggage unpacked, the surf, and tropical heat, soothing your arthritis. Where keys to the driving forces of your life are tossed casually into the waves, forgotten in the slumber of your twilight years. Old has to be earned so many fail to reach its soft tints, and pastoral places, as they rush headlong into the mayhem. Taxing their hearts, and souls in the pursuit of hopeless dreams, all the while wishing they were young again but never stopping to cherish what youth they have Written February 13th, 2002 © on Feb 13 2002 05:31 AM PST    personal • love • hope