“Grow old along with me!”

He said.

“The best is yet to be!”

Oh yeah.

We took that seriously.

We listened to Browning when you were strong

And I was thin

And the kids were little

And we loved our work.

We looked forward to “the last of life

For which the first was made,”

Without expecting arthritis, or heart disease,

Or the diabetes that keeps me from ice cream

And you from brown sugar oatmeal.

Maybe we think the best is what we see

Because we share dementia

And chances are we’ll grow dimmer

As the sun comes up each morning.

And so we nestle in the hand of God

Barely recalling our own names

But trusting Him, not knowing fear

And putting not our faith in poets.

2 thoughts on “Misdirection

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