What happens when we all live to one-hundred?
I am expecting more wrinkles than I have now,
A year before, at ninety-nine.
I've lived for so long,
Death shall I make it past that hundred mile mark?
I feel so tired in these days of Fall,
I'm wilted, I think, like untended petunias,
Like leaves scalding in the midday sun.
My wife is long gone,
My wife I loved and made love to,
Well past the age of fifty,
She died at sixty-one,
I sit remembering,
My time alone.
This horde of trees reflect exactly how I feel,
This decaying oak,
The willow tree caving in,
The bent, broken sycamore tree,
It's branches growing towards earth,
Weighed down, like me with heavy sins.
Butterflies flew now, the kind rare to winter,
Like old people having their slow, careful version of ***,
You might not want to watch it,
You who are young,
You who are convinced,
That when it comes to old age, an exception will be made.
But they still want to do it,
Weird love is better than no love at all.
                                                                     -**Firefly