Poem: Naming It (or the problem with old age)

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.



  1. 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. 🙂


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