Pushing Forty

Pushing Forty

I'm no autumn leaf,

Just one in a withered sheaf

Piled on a forest floor.

I'm not a walnut,

Black-hearted and heavy,

A pungent plunge to rot in a heap.

I'm no October cloud,

A white clot in the sky,

Terrible and tenuous as a sigh.

I'll not turn mealy-mouthed nor sour,

A dour apple, contorted

From hanging too long in shadows.

I'm no doe, frozen in fear,

Stealth in each dear breath

So I'll hear death creep up on me.

I'll not dread silver threads

Cast across my head:

Life's knotted net cannot trap me.

When I shed this skin I'm in,

I'll leave a husk like a cicada.

Not a perfect replica:

No knobby knees and hollow eyes for me.

I'll be filled with the

Airy, amber light of possibility.

The rebirth of my worth.

My belief in my ability.

Wisdom of failures and follies.

I'll not crack when I turn forty,

For when forty pushes me,

I'll push back.

"Pushing Forty." Jimson Weed, vol. XXIV, new series vol. 8, no. 2 (Fall 2005).

Comments: 3

Paula L. Apr 19, 2008, 5:15pm EDT

I like that, "when forty pushes me, I'll push back."

Rony J. Apr 19, 2008, 8:50pm EDT

Great use of words
I like it this
God Bless

Joseph(pol correctness is a mental disorder) R. Apr 27, 2008, 1:48pm EDT

There is great strength in those words.