Middle Age

The hand is first to betray us, to falter and ache, to age outright.

But in the morning, while the moon is still quoting the sun in quarters and halves,

our intentions become young again.

We have lived whole lives by now, though we call this a middle.   

The children that tousled under the clothesline have scattered and climbed the steps into silence.

The last keys have been gathered.

The other day I told you that the white nectarine we sliced and ate

tasted exactly like the fragrance of a rose.

My senses have run amok, but my intentions remain pure.

Why not start anew every morning, my little Earth Song?

Why not make each day the whole thing?

We shall always have our pet names and herbs to bring to sun.

We have Rosemary and thyme.

--Mitchell Hegman