in those years,
brown as a berry,
as I cleaned the pool
or worked in the garden.
Age was still an abstraction,
and I cared more for the sun
and my freedom
than for modesty.
How will it be
in the new place?
Age is no longer
an abstraction,
but there is plenty of sun,
my freedom is still there,
and modesty has flown the coop.
The woods behind us
will not care.
Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler.
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