Naming It. (or the problem with old age)
The problem is
the fire still burns
after the last of the wood is consumed.
A strange kind of magic,
with no explanation,
which of course is why we call it magic.
The stuff we can’t explain?
We have to give it a name.
About this poem.
Except for the bout with cancer? I seem to be aging well. And I have no explanation why.
Inspired by a comment some people at my favorite diner said to me this morning. Hey, I’ll take inspiration where ever I get it.
Tom
Quarry House 
Though you may not agree, proof of a life well lived, my friend! Ah, to have had the wisdom of my years long ago — but would we have recognized or understood?!
Humorously, all too often at my age I find that “naming it,” i.e., recalling the word I’m looking for, is indeed the reminder of my advancing years. 🙂
Blessings!
I can sympathize! Saying every word that is like, but not the word, until I get to it. Makes me laugh every time.