Growing Old

I think more now
how winter leaves –
dried like weathered skin –
slip tree to ground
then back again.
Rivers pass, and
all  we know
ripples by
too quick, almost,
to see.
 
My granddaughter
thinks me old,
my mother ancient,
but we
are glints of light
dancing
on the sea.

Eric Taylor

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Eric Taylor  would be pleased to hear them.