There’s much to be thankful for in growing old.
For a start it’s better than the alternative.
At least I still have a hold on life, and there’s more:
wage slave days are long behind me:
days when work was all I seemed to do.
I can choose to do a bit of this, a bit of that,
write poetry, make quilts, potter in the garden
make a cake or go for a walk.
I might not walk as quickly as once I did
but there’s no hurry, is there?
On the other hand, there’s no getting away from
the aches and pains, the dimming eyes
and fading hearing, and as for the memory –
where did I put my keys?
But at least I remember the good old days.