A sonnet about aging.
The years like statues stand as I march past—
I strolled at first, and soon I know I’ll run.
I used to think this road etern’lly vast
But now it seems too soon that I’ll be done.
My memory stretches thin, a fibrous tail
That twines about the statues in my wake;
Increasingly I note its friction fail
And even big events cannot it stake.
The future seems less clouded to my view
As year by year time’s patterns I have learned
And though the myst’ries still are far from few
Endurance now some confidence has earned.
Yet I don’t doubt that with each new sunrise
I might yet find my future’s a surprise.