At sixty-five, the clock moves slow,
Yet faster than we’d like, we know.
The days behind a woven thread,
Of dreams once chased and words once said.
Time slips quietly through the door,
Like footprints fading from the shore.
Faces blur, once sharp and bright,
Softened now by morning light.
But oh, the road still lies ahead,
With stories we’ve not lived or said.
The map rewrites with every dawn,
Adventure calling, leading on.
We’ve danced through years both kind and wild,
With every scar, a wiser child.
And though the past begins to wane,
New joys arise to take the reign.
A deeper laugh, a gentler pace,
The wisdom found in every place.
No need to rush, no urge to race. Just breathe it in, this life, this grace.
So here we stand, with silver pride,
Not finished yet just redefined.
The rearview dims, but eyes still shine,
For all that waits beyond the line.
Happy 65 my story grows,
Like blooming petals on a rose.
Each year a gift, each step a song,
And the best, perhaps, was mind all along.