a poem

Iíve Become Wanton As I Wither

On my eightieth birthday

Iíve become wanton as I wither.
Why?
Because old age is not a time to gather
itís a time to give away
a time to love
of letting go of all the love
Iíve held in check since childhood
and sending it to places where hearts
are dry.
I do this wantonly before I die.

So when next you see a withered leaf
fluttering like a newborn in a tree,
stop and say hello: thatís me.
and if your heart is dry, come close
and hold me in your hand
Iíll send some love to you.

~ Phil Sheridan