Fifty Eight

It has been a long year
and now, it is past.
You are fifty eight.

This morning, when you woke,
your body did not ache.
There was no stiffness.

In the mirror, you see the age,
how the last year has greyed your sideburns
and crept stealthily into your beard.

You see the wrinkles, though
to be honest it is hard to tell
this years crop from last years.

You are gratified that despite a year
that has been painful, a struggle
on so many fronts that you often felt

under seige, the wrinkles show a man
who smiles more than frowns, who
has fought to keep his joy

and all in all, continues to win the battle.
It is the face of an explorer,
someone afraid, yet who stands at the prow

of his life’s ship, peering into the fog, sure
that the path lies ahead, not behind,
even when he cannot see the way, sure

that nothing can rob him of tomorrow.
A dreamer? Perhaps. But a dreamer who acts,
fails, falls, and stands up again,

sure of God’s plans for him,
even when he cannot see his way,
No longer afraid of his blindness,

trusting love, God’s love. The love of children,
old men and lovers to dance his heart through the darkness
and into the light of another year.

About this poem

I turn fifty eight tomorrow. This poem is my birthday gift to myself, spawned and written as I have been on the road the past few days, traveling with my fifteen year old son, who slept much of the way as we drove.

It is poetry, not quite fact, not quite fiction. Some of both perhaps, but the hopeful part? That is truth.

Tom

PS – the picture is of a reconstructed “hurdy gurdy”, a 12th century instrument I had the joy of hearing and seeing played this past weekend at the Sterling Renaissance Faire, with my son.