As I grow older, I feel younger
more eager, more full of love.
More alive the closer I move to death.
More whole the closer I move into blight.
The sweeter life grows as fervent
clamours of youth pass.
Passions of old age take deeper
flavour, ripened, more nuanced.
More easily words and affections
flow when the self-conscious gaucherie
of youth has passed.
Wholeness suddenly is mine
ragged edges of fear hemmed.
Mirrors say Look. Do not be afraid.
You are what you are.
With thanks to @19syllables for sending me the poem, A Matriarch’s Song by Betty Lockwood and sorry it took sooooo long to use it. I so love the sentiment of this! We only have a four at the front of our age so I don’t think we can use ‘old age’ and ‘blight’ just yet, but it does make me wish 40-year-old me could take 20-year-old me out for a chat. I hope I still have the photos from this blog to look at when I am 60!