Growing old and wise: A poem 

Percipient I get as I grow old 

When matters of romance grow a tad cold 

Dignity and honour indeed grow bold 

Not driftwood caught in a river’s fold 

Character matches with my soul’s substance 

The chef in me throws in the patience 

Life’s ironies make me wish no comeuppance 

Weeds and thorns keep growing distant 

I don’t seek refuge in ambition and dreams 

Stoicism alone is my peaches and cream 

Honesty of illusions is but my means 

Clouds foraging the sky are not my steam 

I test solitude with the gift of words 

Even as the poetry of life is a terse verse 

I begrudge nothing. At every dusk I nurse 

the idea that tomorrow can’t get any worse