Old Bones, Old Dreams

Old Bones, Old Dreams
Now that
I am getting older
in my bones,
I am getting old
in my dreams.

I have watched
John Keats kiss Fanny Brawne
in the spring of their lives
on my television screen
and I pine for younger days.

I walk like a crooked stick
morning, noon, and night
waiting for a burst of energy
that comes and goes
or never comes at all.

The dreams of my youth—
vast horizons, intrepid journeys—
have given way to watching
the innocent play of others
while sitting on the sidelines.

The comfort of this sofa
and the incessant chatter
lull the mind into sweet reverie
of getting caught as a boy
in unexpected summer showers.

And the cool air that followed
out in the country, back home,
could spark a run through the woods
to the hidden pond
to catch bream with a fly rod.

Or just waiting for father
on a Friday afternoon
to saddle up Pal and the mare
for a long and dusty ride
across Brown Road.

Old bones, old dreams—
they fit together now
like hand and glove,
well-worn and a bit arthritic
but holding tight to this life.
DMT © 4/24/14

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