Even before the deaths of Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon crowded all the other events of the world off our news radar, the following poem struck a chord with me, and maybe it will do the same for you. Hope you all have an enjoyable weekend.
The thing about growing older
is that nobody says your name
for weeks. Nothing happens
if you don’t get out of bed, don’t
take the air, don’t shop for bread
or shoes. No one will stop to ask,
“Where is so-and-so?” or observe
footprints never left in the snow,
the snow unshoveled, the class untaught.
You are home pouring coffee,
working silently at your table,
uncubicled. You notice things.
The hydrangeas are enormous. A cobweb
hangs over the lamp. You are your own
museum piece, dusting yourself,
listening for birdsong, breath and heartbeat,
standing still enough to watch motes
loiter in a sunny window, to hear
the rain falling like a silver miracle.