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When one has reached the age of eighty-five,
And years, like mountains crossed, are soft with haze,
It is a triumph simply to survive.
One is where few have managed to arrive,
Where consciousness alone is cause for praise,
When one has reached the age of eighty-five.
And when one can do more than be alive,
Can cope, can comprehend, can turn a phrase,
It's still a triumph simply to survive,
To breathe, to be satiate, to desire, to derive
Solace from the lingering ends of days.
When one has reached the age of eighty-five,
And memories of infancy revive,
And faces long forgotten meet one's gaze,
It is a triumph simply to survive,
To hold together this one world, to strive
To keep what life inevitably betrays.
When one has reached the age of eighty-five,
It is a triumph simply to survive.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
