The bearded gentleman looked neat,
As he passed my house on the street.
In declining years, yet still enduring,
Scoffing at age, merely maturing.
Chronologically ripened, who knows what age?
He’d smile and say he’s still on life’s stage.
You could set your clock by his daily walk
To get fresh air, sometimes stopping to talk.
Losing his wife, outliving friends,
Guarding his life, avoiding sins,
To a loving Savior he was dedicated.
To good behavior he was predicated.
He left the impression of enjoying life,
His body aging, his wit sharp as a knife.
Accused of growing old he simply sneers,
Admitting only to mellowing years.
—James E. Tate, March 2012