Poem of Description
Shuffling more slowly
each day, matching
the pace of my Mom and Jack
as they age, My fears
rise and fall as their voices
do, struggling to hear each other,
to see each other, even
to walk on
the broken sidewalk,
up cracked curbs,
through the sand
on the beach, past
the rocks … How rocky
old age can be.
©2016 – Excerpt from Becoming the Oldest Generation.