The grandfather clock ticks slowly,
its pendulum graceful and deliberate,
the old, well-oiled mechanism quietly ticking
in the silent room.
Your eyes close and you listen,
letting your breath slip into rythm. In. Out.
Your mind quiets, letting go.
Dismissing your life of comparisons,
understanding at last, with your gray hair
and face full of wrinkles, how little time means,
that as long as there is breath, there is room
And as long as there is growth,
old age is put aside
one more day.
About this poem.
I have heard a lot of people tell me it is too late recently. Maybe it is for somethings, but as long as there is life left, possibilities abound. Maybe the ones we want. Maybe something unexpected.
Yet another lesson learned the hard way. I am full of them.