A Teenager with Grey Hair
Spring comes. There is snow and vines of orange
draping like snakes over the barn,
Seasons gone amok. Off kilter.
Time askew. Nothing, Youth, Old age,
the crisis years, none of it in place,
none of it in sequence,
some days doddering, others virile,
still others in the doldrums of middle age.
I will likely be a child when I die,
each day a wonder, madly in love
long past the expiration date,
a teenager with grey hair.
Don’t set your compass by me.
I can’t even tell time.
About this poem
How I feel sometimes. But the poem was spawned by a conversation at my second choice diner about the weather. Which triggered a memory of an ex in my life once telling me I did not look at time the same way as most people. Could be.