Youth takes my hand and holds me back,
  as old age points the way

Unwilling yet to leave this Spring,
  as Winter calls my name

The image in the mirror fresh,
  the one my eyes now see

Of Lochinvar and Lancelot,
   in dreamlike fantasy

The children see me older though,
  their children older still

My spouse afraid I can’t accept,
  what time and seasons will

I hold on tight to wings that splay,
  o’er fields both green and gold

And shun the backstairs of my fate,
—refusing to get old

(Trumbull Connecticut: February, 2017)