I shall get old — one day,
but not yet. some future year.
Calendars do lie.
Perhaps when—

I no longer thrill to beautiful music, or
the warmth in a Spring morning
doesn’t hurry me to seed catalogs, or
I find no fresh meaning in oft-read books.

When I can ignore a butterfly’s beauty
or grass glistening with morning’s dew.
When summer’s breezes drift past
and I can dismiss the scent of clover.

Or a thousand daffodils blossom,
their colors fail to attract my eye.
The crack of bat on ball does not enthuse
to another season—America’s Game.

There will be time then to be old,
to allow aching bones, and dimming eyes,
to say enough already, to groan defeat.
Perhaps. But not yet, I’ve much to do.

Gus Daum


About degus221

A Kansan who has migrated to Oregon.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to AGING

  1. Ann Douglas says:

    I really enjoy your poetry, Gus. And this one is no exception. Well done!


  2. Ann Douglas says:

    I would, though, comment more often if I didn’t have to sign in to do it. Can this be fixed?


    • degus221 says:

      i WISH I KNEW.
      All I know is some trial and error, and what Larry force fed into my fingers.

      For example, I haven’t figured out how to single space poetry (I think influenced by return key)
      without publishing first, then editing.


  3. Simply right-on! Write on, young man, write on!


  4. MaryJo Comins says:

    Yes, Gus, you have much to do and many words to write. Thank you for sharing it all with us!


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