Old age doesn't need
to count the days
its heels are dogged*
by time's unyielding pace

old age is a creaking tree
it can't hold well to its place
it has to give way somehow
that eager saplings will replace

old age has told its weary story
all it wears is wrinkles on its face
despite the vagaries of past seasons
it has tasted the lips of grace

old age is the letting go
the acceptance of the very last phase
no remorse or regret should it know
neither does it need hanker after any praise.