If I am old,
how much older is the earth?
Billions of years,
older than forever,
older than dust.
If I am old,
how much older is that?
I am a mere trestle of morning glories,
a few memories,
tears in the middle of sun drops,
a bracelet of mementos,
a few strands of gray,
all make believe.
Because if earth is so old,
why does it break the heart in spring?
Fill kites with laughter?
How does it remain a child,
coming from the womb?
Like the strawberry kiss of a woman,
wrapped in ribbons
and voices coming across water?
I don’t know how the earth ages.
I don’t see it complain and write sad letters.
It comes to my window and says,
come out and play!
It’s not cold!
It’s not raining!
The frost is a white ring
around my finger,
the rain is foam blown off a sea.
Come out and play in the sky,
everything is new,
only minutes old
only made to last for a moment!
So I have accepted the challenge.
I will never sit on a shelf,
complain of bad joints.
That is the cost of doing business,
of playing and dancing.
I am resigned to perpetual youth,
to never saying no,
to days lived without number,
and without regret.