Too Old

When I am too old to dream,

My mouth too old to smile,

I’ll place my hand upon the land

And feel the Earth a while.

Upon my skin, too loose to shape,

I’ll feel the critters crawl,

Relearning birth through mother Earth

And joy in being small.

I’ll feel the weeds begin to grow

O’er feet too slow to flee

And feel at peace as I release

What I mistook as me.

I’ll look upon my old abode

With eyes I’ve never known,

Then look on all that dared to crawl

And all that’s ever flown,

To use the sight I once ignored

Or else dismissed in haste

And understand ’twas not my hand

On which the insects paced,

‘Twas not my flesh I left behind,

‘Twas not my body gone,

But merely tools to comfort fools

Before their moving on.

When I am both too old to dream

And old enough to go

I’ll make my lair in everywhere

Until you say hello.

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