Time Leaves No Shadow

Climbing the stairway to old

age, physical therapy

loosens the bone; there’s fiber

for the innards, and wine

to pink up the cheeks. Weeding

before coffee is a neighborly

chat, and jaunts in the ‘hood are

quick as a plowboy’s gait.

Technicians admire my sandals and

fire engine toes. The doctor

says for someone my age I am hardy

and adjusting well. Should I

blush or cry? Time leaves no shadow.

Before he leaves the talking

room, I square up my shoulders and

purr in a long-ago voice that

despite a mythic age there dwells

within a jitterbug champ keening

pertly at the Big Band sound.

Photo of sundial courtesy Kevan Davis, flickr/kevandotorg (CC BY-NC 2.0)