Is it age,

Is it age,

The of notice time,

Slowing of bustle

Weariness of yesterday,

The insolence of its hustle.

What brings me here

To this moment

The waiting

Head cocked to one side

The listening

So many birds chattering

Were they always so animated

Even as I hurry by.

Have they found me

In the stillness

The appreciation

Of times passing

The reluctance of youth to wait

Vigilance is a bore

Lingering has acquired

A pleasurable languor

A torpid fascination

With warm afternoons

Sultry evenings

When roses are as beautiful

As they ever were

The clouds as sprightly

As spring lambs

The sea, so brightly blue

A palette

In need of a canvas

Sometimes

I miss the clatter of children

As an accompaniment

To happiness

When the morning stretches

Into the future

Like a magic carpet

And I step out

In expectation of wonder.