A Refusal to Believe
Do not tell me it the seasons change
and I am supposed to die quietly,
wither and turn brown simply because
a calendar or clock tells me it is time.
Do not tell me it is too late for love,
too late for adventures,
that the best is past and what is left
is a slow crumbling to ruins.
For I am determined to flower in darkest February,
to shine like an inferno deep into the rainiest night,
to laugh at my frailties and sing
hymns of defiance as I dance my way to the grave.
About this poem
I am old. So what?
The picture was taken yesterday, too late for flowers here in Vermont. Only someone forgot to tell the flower.
Tom
Quarry House 
I LOVE this!
I am starting to settle into the ageing process and find it quite comfy, mostly. Nice work.~D
me too! after awhile one gets worn out with the fight, the denial, etc. and we can miss the loveliness of aging…and the “confy-ness”. 🙂
I love this…again your words came at an exact moment in my internal brooding…you gave me a banner to hold high – I will ‘flower in darkest February’. I too am old, but way to young to not love, to decline adventure and experience, to not laugh and live. After all it is only October…the days may be short but they are far from gone. Thank you.