At 48 Poem by RIC BASTASA

at 48 time eats what we have grown
they say
there is no turning back
no regrowing
something in us is irreversible
no way to change
no way to repair
and just be another
new cell

what we have like everything that starts
young and solid and firm
wilts, melts, evaporates, loosens

there are wrinkles
so many deaths no resurrections

at 48 the mitochondria burn itself
to death
there are no more fuels
they all speak of an inevitable end

somehow i am not convinced
there is a way
something not yet known by us

call me old fashioned but i still believe
in the power of persistence
there is still an insistence of the miraculous

positivity knows how to wait
in a world that wrinkles, my lips still curls into a smile