On Middle Age

I was told the other day that I was middle-aged and that I should look forward to my golden years. First off, I don't expect to live to be 112, so at the tender age of 56, the only thing I'm in the middle of is hair loss and girth growth. And as far as the "Golden Years" go, I think someone has again mistaken pyrite for the more malleable metal.

Unless one knows their date of departure, middle-aged could be any age, but most of us associate middle-age with that period of time when the invincibility of youth gives way to the uncertainty of time. A very good friend of mine, even more middle-aged than I am, sent this poem to me the other day. His name is Charlie Walker, and I hope you enjoy his work as much as I did:

ON MIDDLE AGE

There is that strange sunlit moment
When, as a pebble tossed carelessly into the air,
Life itself arcs and reaches a shimmering apogee.
I can climb no higher
And yet I struggle against the inexorable fall.

How profligate I have been...
Squandering the days of half a lifetime.
Never realizing until the toll was called
How precious mere moments could become.
My God! I have lost whole years!

Long ago, still fearing death,
I foolishly wished to live forever.
While not yet the friend it will become,
Death seems a gentler, more acceptable estate.
Now we can meet on more even terms.

Each year passed, is a room, neatly labeled.
Of triumphs and failure; no hint is given by the doors.
They are closed and sealed forever.
Yet, contained within are the patterns for what must come.
Images from which time will weave its unclear cloth.

Still the fabric of dreams.

There is quite a bit to be digested, so read it over a couple of times and find yourself.