by Philip Henslowe

Created on: April 25, 2008

Is aging when
the poetry is gone
with wanderings midst
the leaves of summer whimsy
fallen in a golden bronze
of Autumn?

When words no longer
flutter through the mind
like Monarchs in milkweed
or hummingbirds among hostas?
When no thought creeps cleverly
like a squirrel down a leaning limb
to steal away an offering to the birds?

When the poetry is gone,
that's when the living's done,
like a river having run,
as senses dim
like a setting sun,
and rhythms cease
to rhyme.

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