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.