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.
The Daily Travesty 