Passages Of Time. Poem by david lessard

there are seventy years of weather etched in my face,
lines that came from laughter, a few from salty tears;
some wrinkled skin from the wrath of dreaded cigarettes,
some splotches from the worn out welcoming of years.

but essentially, I look quite good for all the time,
for all the seasons spent in cold and sunny places;
a little arthritis, in my hands and also in my feet,
but of the ravages of illness, they are no traces.

I work and exercise to keep this old body into shape,
walking, hiking, biking and I bend to lift up weight;
I stretch and and wave the limbs to keep me limber,
and I love the other sex, the one I call my mate.

I will not let the age of time to call my tune,
I will not surrender to inertia, no matter what I do;
It's in the woods and the hills that I'll be found,
I do not want to sit around and slowly stew.

there's a road map, if you could read my sun-burned face,
there's an atlas to scan and recollection of many trips;
the best source of it all, the horse's mouth so to speak,
comes from the telling of the tales, from off my lips.