When I become old,
as I know I surely may,
what might I see and hear and feel
to fill each aged day.
Will there be mist upon my face,
a snowflake falling to my tongue?
Can I walk barefoot in the grass
as I did when I was young?
Will there be sounds of trickling stream,
a mighty ocean’s roar,
the deep, deep voice of a small tree frog
come at night through my open door?
Will hummingbirds wings beat too fast to see
as they hover over my flowering rose?
Will a seagull soar still-winged for an hour,
a quick gray mouse escape a talon’s close?
Will some kind lady return my smile,
a neighbor’s hand grasp firm on mine,
will the sun bake warm upon my back,
and a myriad night stars shine?
Why not become old?
gusdaum, January 2014