It’s There, So I Do It





Reluctantly,
I write poems about aging,
Since folks will think aging nags at me...
It doesn't.
But it is fertile ground
From which to grow humor...
Both the wheat in my poetic bread,
And the yeast to leaven it.
But, God forbid, that I plow too deep
And melancholy grows instead...
That's a crop I'll pull up by the roots.