Without Them

The fog lifts, just a little,
enough that the near things can be seen.
not so much that the distance comes into focus.
Enough perhaps, for now.

You are aware of the toll of time.
The things broken. The things removed.
Parts and pieces of you scattered over a dozen states
of being. Some parts replaced. .

Some irreplaceable. You simply learn to live
without them.

About this poem.

Simply a poem about growing older. Lest you think it is a poem about one thing (which poems never are), think about all the things that have gone into making you who you are today.

Tom