When bones get brittle
and even little things are hard to do
will I still crave the challenges
of learning something new?

Will a slower step or weaker grip
necessarily translate
to a slower mind or a weaker wit?
I dare not contemplate

the thought that I may one day be
content to step aside
and watch the world dispassionately
as it goes spinning by.

Will I not feel the artist’s urge
to create a lovely mess.
Will I be given crayons
and expected to regress

to trying to stay between the lines
in pathetic colouring books,
when lines were things I crossed for fun
not caring how I looked.

No, I’m afraid I won’t be one
who goes quietly goodnight;
I’m pretty sure when I check out
I’ll still be pondering why

the sky can be as pink
as cotton candy or as green
as willow buds, and wondering
where the wild geese have been.

So I guess it doesn’t matter much
where I live as long as I
can be myself in my right mind
right up until I die.

So take my hand and a deep breath
and stay here by my side.
Let’s rock out the golden years,
It’ll be an epic ride.

# 188