Over the weekend I was cleaning out the tray where homeless papers go to die, or at least to await their deaths, and I found a scribbly sheet of lined paper from a few weeks ago, when I turned 37 and felt thoughtful (read: felt old). At first I was just going to file it somewhere, but then I thought, why not? what's a blog for?
I will never be any younger than I am today.
Let me never be any less patient,
Any less wise, any less kind.
Age is inexorable; growth is not.
Let me grow.
I am not yet accustomed to this age--
its trochees trip my tongue.
Let it be a year of grace,
a year to remember when I am old.
"37," I will say, "the year that taught me--"
--whatever you have have in store.
The face in the mirror will never be any less lined:
let it speak of lessons learned gladly.
Let it reflect more truly the Face
in whose image it was fashioned.
As lines proliferate, like an online map
when a user clicks "zoom in,"
let it show more clearly
a path unto your home.
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