Age discloses nothing.
Ask, rather, how many
New Moons I have witnessed;
how many Full, in how many places.
How many sunrises, sunsets.
How many miles I have travelled.
Upon how many faces have I gazed;
into how many eyes, deeply –
colours honoured, remembered.
How profound has been my sorrow,
how exalted my joy.
How many scars have I,
both of body and heart.
How much regret; how much gratitude.
How often have I needed help;
how often have I asked for it.
How much art have I stood before
in wonder. How much poetry have
I read – blood that is mine
but that I have never known.
How many tears have I cried,
brought to weeping by a lyric, a chord.
Ask me, how many words have
I written, how many have I yet
to write. That is how old I am.
That is my age.