Growing Old Poem by James McLain

The glittering of all I know.
Has anyone else who mattered.
Such glimpses have I glimpsed.
I worry notably,
of all the ghosts I see
and loved.
And more guilt for staying home.
Home the heart of all our tragedies.
Leaving, coming, going on young,
being gay,
the teen's going outside into you.
My nursing home,
blond birds,
they'll all exceed my firm grasp.
What to do, I do, do you?
We all smell the taste of snow.
Green leaves we have eaten and more.
Here their are other ghosts.
Well one warmed, it seems to flit
around and sometimes it when I ask.
The glittering of all I did know.
Now it's day,
and before that I came it was for.