Senescence

I remember writing

on my thirtieth birthday

a haiku about wind

and cold rain

on the eve of November.

Nearly 28 years later,

I laugh at my young self

thinking he was old

and hope I will amuse

my octogenarian self

if he lives to read this poem

about my vanishing hair and

my old man legs

and my I-don't-care-what-

they-look-like-I-just-

want-to-be-comfortable

shoes,

about how I will own my age

as I will own the cane

that I will inevitably need

someday,

how I will kill

the role of 

cantankerous old man

before it kills me

and how I hope to die

on a gusty autumn day

that my spirit might

dance once more

in a swirl of orange and red

before wafting away

to nothing.   - Jeff Barnes