I tell my students I’m old. They laugh at me. I’m not sure whether they laugh because they think of me as young (improbable; they are between 16 and 17 years of age, that time in one’s life when anyone over thirty seems impossibly ancient) or because I’ve made a statement which is so patently obvious as to be ridiculous. I’m kind of betting on the latter.

To prove it, may I present…This:

On Aging

It comes while we sleep, I think

Not with a single clamorous leap

Or shout of dread

But silent, stealthy, creeping to place

One toe upon the bed.

So now, its your turn. Send me a poem, ten lines or less, about something as inevitable as it is bittersweet. I dare ya!

Meantime, Happy Writing.

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