As an infant,
I wet my pants,
Cried often,
Did not like to be left alone.
At five and six I was a bag of tricks,
Just for kicks,
Smart at solving conflicts,
Able to come out of a fix.
In my youth,
A bit uncouth
With ease told untruth.
Then I changed wholesome,
Blossomed,
Sweet, charming and awesome.
At middle age I was being myself,
Still not on a shelf,
Memories filled with nostalgia,
Preferred to relax on a sofa.
Now, at an old age,
I am an Autumn foliage,
I too cry often,
I too do not like to be left alone
1/10/2020