penning new poems
as old age approaches.
Like birds,
over sixty years
have flown.
In the end,
their nests are all we have—
our days like raveling string,
scraps of yesterday’s news
woven around empty space,
silent center of launch and land.
Loss—
it’s the same cordate leaf
falling in all our yards,
tears we rake up
after burying the cat,
felling the tree.
What I’m after?
Fewer words, gratitude.
Trails leading to where life
still needs me to go.
The contentment that comes
sitting alone, a book in my lap
as evening light wanes,
remembering people
and places.
We want to hear from you, not an AI! Please be thoughtful and use your own words. Comments on Friendsjournal.org may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.