Old At Last Poem by Mario, Lucien, Rene Odekerken

The years settle gently,
like dust on an open book,
pages worn but still turning.

The mirror no longer startles,
only nods in quiet recognition,
lines etched deep with laughter and loss.

Hands move slower,
not out of weakness,
but with patience of knowing.

The world rushes past,
but there is no need to chase it-
the important things have already arrived.

A warm chair, a familiar voice,
the weight of a hand in yours.
Not young, not restless.
Old at last.