There is still so much
left to affect
in this life,
and (I know)
not enough left
of time, sweat, and blood.
But still, I must bask
in the gravity
of walking;
still I must claim
every breath
as a trust,
as a flame
on a votive candle,
lit in thanksgiving,
as a theme song
for the wildness
and the honor of everything—
for the privilege
of knowing that all of this
began with light,
and that all,
as it must, will end
in dust.
My clavicles
and the gray of my
temples may be showing,
aged
by their prematurely-
accumulated grace;
my bones may be softer,
my pace may be
slowing—but still
I draw
the next breath.
Still I will keep going.
