On Getting Old Poem by RIC BASTASA

when i was a child
i don't really know how significant is the
mona lisa
smile, at first glance nothing in it is delicious
like a chocolate cake
or a red lollipop
or magnolia drumstick

i remember
how you snub the red wheelbarrow
what is it in a rusty wheelbarrow that stirs mankind
into deep thinking?

now things have changed
the sigh has a lot to say to the wind

the air has a heart of its own
the sea becomes a body of a woman

the moon a beautiful face
the night is not a place for fear
but for desire

romance spreads in the air
and the flowers that we pluck for play
may better be
staying to bloom at their stalks

we watch things rot
flowers that wilt and give up their gnarled petals

time indeed makes us different
when the sunset comes we become too cautious

we choose the words
we place our hands properly on the table
our eyes sharp now

to every detail
inside the labyrinths of our hearts