Aging is chancy.
You never know
What’s waiting
Around each turn
Of life’s contorted path.
A pothole,
A vista,
Oasis or mire,
Shrouded until
We stumble there,
To savor,
Untangle,
To struggle,
Or bask.
Each morning presents
A challenge,
Or prize.
Some days
I wish
That aging was effortless,
But then I remember
How bored
I would be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem