We don’t think it will happen
until it does; losses pile up like 
broken dolls left out in rain: 
a few teeth at first, then arms 
too short to read, words too soft
for meaning, waning strength.

Less mourning if they happen slowly 
enough, fading like summer sunsets
or thinning morning mist. We take 
small changes in stride though we
still hope the tooth fairy leaves 
something desirable in their place:

Not dentures, glasses, hearing aids. 
Nor creaking sounds of stiffening
joints. Instead, we can look for 
tiny miracles: the taste of sweet tea
after a storm, a cardinal peering in 
the window, its bright feathers a

testament to love’s beauty. We can 
also exult in what is left, remember 
to remain unbroken by all that is 
gone. When we value what is 
ageless, grief will treat us gently 
in the face of ensuing loss.
                        

When my joints become snare drums, 
I play the Sahara, bones dry as dust 
in an African drought, my body, a riverbed 
of stones and stories. 

I no longer disappear from dull parties 
unnoticed; getting up from a chair announces 
my departure: crackling microphone on an old 
sound system shouting “oncoming age”.

My tales from the time of free speech, 
free love are stale bread; even re-heated 
for those who won’t remember, they have lost 
their crispness and secret tastes.
.
The waters of life are receding,
the vessel drying out, ship on a sandbar— 
gravity sculpting free-form.

My body covering a half size too large,
lines and crevices have become memorable.
Mirrors, suddenly too clear, give vanity 
new definition.

The fountain of youth is not in Miami
nor in bottles of Evian imported from France. 
A liter of water will not reverse time 
nor refill an emptying well.

Far sightedness—now a blessing, 
gives perspective, soft focus;  an introverted 
dwelling in wisdom, enduring values, leaves me 
laughing and loving—what still works.
                        

Like the eucalyptus, 
despite a smooth and 
variegated facade, 
there are rough edges
beneath my outer layer,
places of wounding and 
sorrow, ancestral memories 
rubbing up against a child’s 
fears—bone on bone like 
my grandmother’s knees.

No one can wear another’s
pain or know the secrets we 
hide even from ourselves. The 
knots on my trunk cover deeper 
scars where love was lacking, 
where fear of rejection intersects
with culture’s expectation. But on 
the surface, my weathered skin
shines and leafy arms still reach
and grow towards heaven.