My feet have slowed—
my eye measures distance
and my mind weighs
the importance of moving
as I withdraw
from all the magic
flashing the horizon
like explosions
of another war
that will not wound me,
fatally. This time
is mine to spend,
frugally. Summer sighs
into September shadows
as I wait for storms
to wash the outside
world clean away.
Too old to play football
or politics anymore,
I hear colors sing
without a score.
drycrikjournal 
Beautiful!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Louisa.
LikeLike
Finally, we’re seeing things for real . . . Nice!
LikeLike
As I responded privately to another friend of age, ‘Is this the beginning of our ascension?’ Thank you, Peter.
LikeLike
I think everyone needs to learn to spend our time frugally. It is finite, after all. “I hear colors sing without a score.” is a superb ending. The play on the word score is lovely.
LikeLike
Thank you, glad you like it Sue.
LikeLike
I swear, your poetry just gets better and better, John. So beautiful. So poignant.
Louise
LikeLike
Thank you, Louise. You know what they say about a blind pig, every once in a while it finds an acorn. I can’t claim it all, the words often come from somewhere else.
LikeLike