In nine short months I hope to enter
the eighth decade of my life, with
no promises and perhaps no expectations.
Is this the next silent approach of finality
or merely smooth transition toward oblivion?
How many times I thought in my life
I want to do this or accomplish that
without ever placing any sort of deadline.
Or perhaps death itself is the finish line.
Already I have done more than I expected
although much less than I wanted.
But does that satisfy the urge to keep on?
Not in the very least.
Courses continue, lessons yet unlearned;
these rivers flow down as always
past not so forgiving levees
and much detritus is left settled below
while the rough edges of my enterprise
are smoothed in the constant flow of time.
I now might say “before I’m seventy I’ll”
- visit seven continents
- see more wonders than my ancestors
- develop greater understanding
- have a full conversation with my grandchild
- continue the journey.
So hand over that golden helmet, Dulcinea
and point me to the giants to be slain
we must create our own dreams
impossible or not.