Even though, when I look in the mirror,
see my father looking back at me,
I still feel full- moon rising.
Even though I can count the age spots
that look like coffee stains on the fabric
of my face, I sense the surf still rushing in.
Even though my joints get stiff if I sit too long,
and I cannot bend like I once could,
I love the sun’s hot hands upon my face,
my arms, my chest, my legs,
taking all of me as if I still mattered.
Even though I am well beyond Indian summer,
and the leaves are falling more quickly from
the trees, and whole bunches of me lie
in heaping piles of colorful memories –
before the cold grey sky, the sleet and snow
wind arrive –
I love, truly love these golden moments in time,
burning their brightest the way candles do,
just before their flames die.