I Am Prone to Growing Old

These lines might declare
that I no longer fear it, but I boast
like one who wields

new weapons—
all bravado, flourish, and strut—
while inside I’m gripped

with recoil, knocked back
by pushback of any kind.
Or maybe I’m too tired

to drag this plough
any deeper into shadow, maybe
I want to rest. Maybe

I want to weave even darkness
into soft, heavy blankets
with which to build a nest. Colder

the winds that blow now,
closer to the bone. Crow’s feet.
Lost teeth. Slipping

memories, one by one. Diagnoses
and crises of every type
and a diminishing

capacity for sleep
and still I must admit
that honey seems

even more honeyed, now,
the sun shining
toward my slippered feet—

golden as clarified butter.
Ghee, sun, a mother’s love.
This day is an amber

I’d happily be petrified
within, ancient light granting
warmth and clarity

to dwindling days. Shadows
cast by leaves
flicker and drift across my floor

to remind me of doors
opening and clicking shut
at once, all the places

we must enter or exit
with love. Honeycomb me,
catacomb me, seed me

back into earth
when its my turn,
having drawn from me first

each fault
& imperfection, leaving
only bright fire

burning, & sweetness.
I’ll wait where the wind
nudges seed

from a dead pod,
where the night
spins in dervishes

the sand that will blanket it.
One day maybe I’ll snap
as easily

onto a breeze, homebound
by parachute, propeller, or wing.