Moving Lightly
I move lightly at sixty,
a little less than the max.
Any faster, and the sunflower shells I spit
blow back in my face,
and any slower and the driver behind
becomes too distressed.
I move lightly at sixty,
homeward through the rural landscape,
past barns and combines,
engine humming, without straining,
secure that I need not be anywhere,
or anything, but myself.
I move lightly at sixty,
through the longer shadows of fall,
short days and warm afternoons,
trees variegated with the leafy
nostalgias of the year past,
and the years before.
I move lightly at sixty,
the old van's engine drones
as I "OM", indistinguishable
one from the other, both well worn,
and oblivious of the
years we show.
I move lightly at sixty,
no longer with a need to lie,
or prevaricate,
in love with every woman I see,
and no longer afraid
to say so.
I move lightly at sixty,
in love with the journey,
rather than the goal.
In love with the moment
rather than the hour and
the need to mark it.
I move lightly at sixty,
bemused by public anger over
a rappers words, knowing they
are far less harmful
than the blood shed
in my time.
I move lightly at sixty,
ready to gear down if necessary,
still able to speed up if needed
to avoid the hazards
of an overactive ego
and libido.
I move lightly at sixty,
content to be alone,
joyful to have company,
regretting neither,
thankful for old friends,
and old loves.
I move lightly at sixty,
finding that not acting,
is as important as the act,
knowing that one can be undone,
and the other, can't.
I move lightly at sixty,
like a comfortable breeze
on a fall day, a thermal for a bird,
uplift for a friend,
a drying wind for a
tearful cheek.
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