THE OLD LAMENT

Growing old it can be said
Is better than becoming dead
And though some blessings do exist
Being young is one that’s missed

I vow I’ll never use a cane
But am I wise or merely vain
I wonder as I lurch along
If with a cane I do belong

My memory is not so great
Words come to mind a bit too late
I start to speak, then there’s a lapse
Listeners fill recurring gaps

Old friends tell me I look good
I really think they think they should
But each encounter with a mirror
Reminds me why old friends grow dearer

If time stood still would I be me?
And what would be reality?
Though I may stumble on the way
I'll reach that rainbow one fine day