That age is not a lessening –
time is not a whittling down
until we’re next to nothing –
that somewhere still
there is the boy who played
on the balcony, found
adventure in the forest;
the young buck who sat
late into the night, sang
for love and supper;
the father, the farmer,
the one who endured.
That age is not a lessening
in the face, the eyes
