I am never so old as on One / Twenty-One.
Each year it seems Time’s winning (or has won).
Seems a fait accompli
That what’s happened to me
Can’t be reversed, slowed, or undone.
The forecast at Nine was received as a vow
Of impossibly high drifts of snow.
Yes, the snows of my youth,
Mostly meager, in truth,
Never failed to illicit pure Wow.
At Nineteen, the storms were capitalist ventures
Behind shovel on midnight adventures.
Pushing snow in great heaps
During the town’s dreamy sleep,
My thin wallet grew fat without censure.
Young adulthood is when all this started to change
(‘Course that’s when a man’s life is bursting with strange).
Now snow days don’t earn me,
Instead now they burn me—
As Personal Days, home on the range.
As my shovel and I both grow longer in teeth,
The deeper my Youth sinks buried beneath.
Still, a snowball in hand,
With arc perfectly planned
Sparks a boy’s joy, like bright sword unsheathed.
The days nigh are coming, and soon will be here
When driveways and steps will be traversed in fear,
With my hand on the railing,
Begging feet out of failing,
Guiding my little old lady so dear.
Fair Spring is the season whose siren call is young,
And Summer is charged with energy and sun.
Swift Autumn comes on us
But leaves us in darkness—
These seasons, so regular,
What’s more, act as metaphors.
They alter and grind us
‘Til later we find us
Ne’er so old as we feel every One / Twenty-One.
January 21, 2018