The TInker Travels

It is late in the season, later than the weather indicates,
but you feel the age in your soul, a thing too worn
by the years behind you,
too young for the few years left.

A birthday. Another one. Come. Gone
with each one ahead suspect. If there is one thing
you have learned, it is that there is no predicting,
no certainty.

The past matters more than it should.
It is only a path, nothing more. Yet at times
I carry it like a tinker’s wagon, clinking and clanking,
heard from afar.

There’s no sneaking up on anyone,
Not with that noise. It draws attention, wanted or not.
and so, as I age, as I travel through what is left
of my journey,

one by one I drop my tin cups. Give them away.
Let them fall to the ground for others to find,
no longer needed. No longer wanted.
Your need now all peace, and light, and quiet.

About this poem

I just turned 68. I am the sort who spends time looking back and looking forward on my birthdays. It’s been quite the journey so far.

Tom