There are no dreams like this:
old man learning to go slow
without coming to a stop—
hand let run the smooth flesh
of a time and weather-worn
corral-board table top, sanded
and shellacked, splinters sealed
beneath to become functional.
Scars and crooked fingers trace
the deep grain without calloused
insulation, a new sensation saved
for thin skin that bruises easily.
There are no dreams like this
for whip and spur youth, wide loops
and inflated heroics—yahoo mugs
raised to the wild, to the heavens
howling late into black night
when once I was among them.
drycrikjournal 
Ahhhh… don’t I know it! That one hits The heart of an aging man.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It is indeed a journey that takes some getting used to. Cheers, Tim!
LikeLike
By degrees, the way of things, right or wrong, with uneven distribution of each. Foolishness and wisdom share the road.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Right, old friend.
LikeLike
Ubi sunt….
Nicely done, John.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, George, for reminding that there’s nothing new under the sun. I didn’t want to be whiney because this new landscape has its high points.
LikeLike
I have a few images of four old men ‘learning to go slow without stopping’. I’ll send them to you soon. Hugs.
LikeLike
…sorry for the misquote, make that ‘without coming to a stop’. Information retention; another phenomenon for ‘whip and spur youth’…it WAS over five minutes ago that I read you splendid verse. Be well, my old friend.
LikeLike
Okay, last comment: Terry tells me I’ve already sent them…well, ‘Bob’s your uncle’. Now, how do I go about cleaning up this mess I’ve made on your lovely drycrikjournal page?
LikeLiked by 1 person
My dad says getting old isn’t for sissies. You caught the bittersweetness wonderfully.
janet
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Janet, that was my intention. No point moaning.
LikeLiked by 1 person