I always thought that as I added years
in life and lumps in limbs and folds in face,
so I would increase wisdom too, and fears
would fade and patience grow and I’d learn grace.
Then anger wouldn’t rule my heart (I thought),
and hurt would be reserved for awful woe,
but otherwise I wouldn’t see me caught
exasperated, insecure, this low.

Now here I stand past middle life, I guess,
approaching old, familiar with my past,
yet fretting why my mood is such a mess,
and wishing just one hold on health would last.
It’s obvious that I don’t have it yet:
Perhaps we’re all born wise and then forget.