The beauty 
of youth
is believing 
that you 
are immortal 
and the 
beauty of 
age is 
understanding that 
you’re not 

It’s just 
a cloud 
and like 
most clouds 
that come
they go
clouds are
very little 
more than 
sighs pauses
and hiccups 
on a 
sunny day 

There doesn’t seem 
to be the 
hurry when one 
is contentedly alone 
like the fire
that burns slowly 
in the pit 
rather than the 
ravaging wildfire emboldened 
to get somewhere 

In this time
of obscene uncertainty 
it’s moments like 
these where I
find myself moments 
shutting out shuffling 
off into us
your eyes my
smile our laughter 
these root me
like those of
strong oaks amidst
the many strangers 
and their madness 

I’m old enough 
to know that 
things change very
quickly and that
one should always
be grateful for
what one has
and not for
what one might