Characteristic

of old people's buildings is --


their name: Home of Loss.

The shadows are long,

I'm waiting, it's getting dark --


it's coming closer.

A new appointment,

and today my first grey hair:


what many changes!

That old age problem,

of course you know, I have it --


anyway, type 3!

The breeze stretches and cools the season
along the country road
variegated light, leaf-filtered
from trees that lean
in rivalry for my eager eyes.

Their foliaged arms dangle, then drop
an amber snowfall all around
as if to awaken me
to the autumn creep
into my bones that click and tick
with each tottery step.

Earth awakens me to the beauty
in this splendorous season
of the gliding swaying passage
of life in alteration
and spiritual invitation
to bathe in the slow current of creation
along this road
and its cool and bright possibilities.

I'm falling apart, believe me
it's real, and not a request
for pity, just
falling apart, cracking
like an old jar

I've been through too much
suffered too much, for now
it is going slowly
but still faster

I can't keep myself
together anymore, so be it
I just let you know
then you can come
to accept it too

I will soon be about
630 million impersonal
particles, dust
of course
without consciousness

The priest is too old,

not suitable for people --


not for God either.

My children meeting

about me, apparently --


I am that old now.

Grandma's tapestries,

which she wove as a girl, are --


decaying with her.

Getting old, no time

anymore to keep order --


in what I witness.