Age

 

He wore the years lightly,

Secure in the knowledge

That his soul was not changing

Or shriveling up.

Only the body

Showed marks of wear,

And even these

Were not all for the worse;

He had more texture,

He told himself,

Like a pencil sketch

Lovingly filled in.

 

Besides, what’s a body?

A physical thing.

A chemical miracle

That somehow can think.

His thoughts were not aging;

They were bright as ever,

And much too absorbing

To let him worry much.