Poet at 40

A Poem about growing up, getting older.

Poet at Forty
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In the slow gradual surrender to time
And circumstance
You find quietness
And ease
And settle in to curse
Half-heartedly

Blood down sense up
And back from the edge
You find time to look around
See what’s edge you’ve been on
Comment on its sharpness
Its shearness its finality
Its fertility

Its unattractiveness is stunning
And funny and futile
Not subtle
But serpentinly fascinating
And you are unbitten
Unswallowed
Done with it

A step back sighing smiling slouching
Until your feet touch nothing
You kick you flail
Employ yourself fully
To break the surface
And breathe
And glimpse the faroff
Once familiar shore

Think,
good thing I love to swim
have survived the crazed run to the sea
have come to the sea
have come to see in deeper water
in time

The light is bent
And colored in the current
The bottom is
Vague
Swimming nearby
Are mountains
I’ve never seen