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