Perhaps I could say
I love to dance
To slip on my pointe shoes
and prance
around lightly in a whimsical twirl
and have not a worry in the world.
Perhaps I could say
I love to sing
To speak in tuneful melody
and bring
to life written words that alone are but dead
for well sung is always better than well said.
Perhaps I could say
I love to paint
To create imaginary colours
and taint
upon canvas my dreamy hues
waterfall pinks and raspberry blues.
But
could I still dance in old age
with my back hunched down low
could I pull off plies
would my knees allow so?
What if my voice cracked and died
and I no more could sing
would I manage my tunes
or just a toothless grin?
Would my colours still live
or fade grey with my head
could my mind still weave hues
would it, too, age instead?
What would I do
with these loves out of reach?
How could I part
with every one and each?
Dear friend, I could say so much
I could have all in the world as such
but "all" could slip away with years
leaving me with naught but tears
But not all is lost, I could love more
my hair may grey, but my heart remains pure
Friend, tis you love that emptiness fills
you'll age with me, you'll love me still.
Thus, my friend
it is not what I could say
but what I would say
and what I shall say
is that I love you.
