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.