Poetry Sunday

I'll be 72 years old this fall. On most days I don't feel that old, at least not after about 10:00 AM or so. But I find myself more and more reflecting about days past and friends gone and roads not taken*, much as W. S. Merwin does in today's poem ...

Old Man At Home Alone in the Morning 

by W. S. Merwin 

There are questions that I no longer ask

and others that I have not asked for a long time

that I return to and dust off and discover

that I’m smiling and the question

has always been me and that it is

no question at all but that it means

different things at the same time

yes I am old now and I am the child

I remember what are called the old days and there is

no one to ask how they became the old days

and if I ask myself there is no answer

so this is old and what I have become

and the answer is something I would come to

later when I was old but this morning

is not old and I am the morning

in which the autumn leaves have no question

as the breeze passes through them and is gone

"yes I am old now and I am the child

I remember what are called the old days and there is

no one to ask how they became the old days"

I don't care how they became the old days ... I care only that I lived them as best I could.

Have a good day and enjoy the rest of your weekend. More thoughts coming.

Bilbo

* Sorry, Robert Frost.