Aging

I realize, now that I’m old, 
my early poems 

rely almost always on image,
letting pictures talk.

As an old man, though, 
I find I write lessons 
learned gladly.

Remembering seems all that I do: 
whether literally 
or something I dreamed. 

Remembering sometimes brings me solace, 
or at times regrets:
things done and those I didn’t;
and, of course, mistakes. 

I remember a few things accomplished,
but it’s a muddy track
and mud still sticks to my shoes.

There is no washing. 

Yes, I have regrets,
still am curious to see what may come:
things welcome and also regrets
before life is done. 

I could wear myself to a frazzle
by fearing death,
but, instead, I choose to be hopeful,
knowing death shall come, 
regardless. 

I rely on love I have known 

and the grateful tears
that so often I have experienced
together with those I love

in spite of jealousies, anger and fear:
gracious acts of healing:
which I hope
I’ll find death to be.