I am too old to be this happy.
The happiness of men my age is a contentment,
not a restlessness that continues to be fed
and cared for and released into the wild.
And yet, here I am, flying,
to who knows where, happy where I am,
happy wherever I might be traveling,
About this poem.
Some time ago I expressed a restlessness. An unexplainable need for some change in my life. Thinking I knew where that change might come from, I was (as I so often am) utterly wrong. God (as he so often does) had different changes in mind. And so here I am, happy. (What a strange word for me to use about myself. I like it.)
Growing old gracelessly (often with parentheses).