In a nation of laws, age matters. Ask voters and drinkers
and drivers and candidates for public office just how much
age matters. Set arbitrarily, each limit gained its own
permanence, importance and demands. I obeyed. But since I
found a way to retire, I don't mind. Here’s the time that wasn’t lost
in hassles and hustles and rushing through meetings. Time again
to turn rocks over and see what they hold precious—or to stop,
sit atop the stockpile it took years to acquire and now look
at each piece to see if it's worth its weight in gold or beauty
and shadows of smiles or peals of bells and laughter.
Here the rush to milestones of eligibility no longer makes sense—
Finally. And it feels like docking a huge ship, a slow and
clumsy barge, surviving stormy seas, arriving home after
long exile. Forgive me, those of you who know exile firsthand—
Only now have I time to look back and see who I ignored
on my way through the maze that held me. I can’t say I enjoy
the hindsight, but if age ripened me for a new journey, I'll
welcome it along with new partners who join in the next ride.
Why mind aging when we feel new passion to be alive?
When we see, finally, what was—what is—worth its weight in gold?
For my prompt at Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Birthday(s)