ITS MIRACULOUS BLUE

It comforts them to think of the aging
as serene, equanimous, resigned, and
grateful for the having-had.
Having had their share of good times,
leaving with a peaceful sigh a blessing
for relatives who’ll circle the tidy death bed,
glancing at smart phones, wonder how long . . .
they’ve kids to pick up, golf, dry cleaning . . .
They don’t yet understand 
that no one
wants to go home from the party.

We who have skin in the game
once thought so too, but
no longer tell ourselves
​that the stop sign at the end of the road
is a red party balloon.
(Even fish out of water know
to thrash with every fibre of being,
to gulp the poisonous air
against the dying of the light)

And the young, believing themselves
forever shielded by their supple muscles,
snug in their smooth smooth skins,
cringe, say TMD to hear that
we aged have never felt more passionate.

We turn music way up, sprinkle excessive
cardamom, ginger, habanero pepper.
We savour wine corks, read away insomniac nights,
fold friends tight in our hearts, and
yes, yes, lovers too.
The razor’s edge of immanent loss
grows our appetites, voracious.

How every step along that road glows,
radiant with counterpoint
of finches’ warble, swallow’s liquid slip- lip.
The urgent grass undulating.
Chicory bloom flooding the verges
                                                      with blue, its miraculous blue.





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