Letter To The Aging Poem by Romella Kitchens

If you have aged, it is not because
you have set out amongst the rocks
and cavernous dens of existence
to do so.

Maybe it was currents deep with
blood you could no longer judge.
Perhaps a certain line or angle,
physical mapping of suffering.

Maybe you were oak or elm for
many years then suddenly bamboo
oddly snapped into fragile wire supported
White ash with no place to grow.

Wash your differing face.
Dress.
Shuffle here and there before the truer
sunset, before all the spires spill with
rain, before the last note of the Ave Maria
fades down,

goes mute.