Nothing Else Really Matters

What does it mean to grow old?

It seems to be a withdrawing,

a drawing in of feeling.

Where once you lived

with passion, fiercely,

where there was wet ardour

and hot sweat,

and love, and even hate,

this drawing in pulls you back,

dulls those passions,

pushes them out of reach,

like horizons and time,

where once you were

but never will be again.

And then one day,

it comes to you,

the understanding;

you are done.

You will never have to

make that journey,

make the effort to get there,

make something of yourself,

reach that goal,

hit that target,

succeed;

you will never have to

try

to live for anything,

beside yourself,

ever again.

And you sigh, and,

like a soft wave kissing shingles,

become becalmed and serene.

Withdrawn from that world,

contracted, compacted,

you are happy now,

sitting

on a warm chair

in the early spring sunshine,

thinking

of your friends and family,

of your beautiful boy,

breathing out,

and breathing in,

looking all around

at all the world

and all that it gives you,

and weeping

with wordless joy

at budburst, and bumblebees.