If I had died a dozen years ago,
I could have taken fantasies intact
with me into the earth, and never know
the pain of my illusion meeting fact.

I’d be remembered young by everyone
who knew me long enough to care for me,
for even after all the worms were done
I’d still unwrinkled be in memory.

But hazardous and hard as life appears
to be, now I’ve attained this middle age,
maturity began a dozen years
ago – it never acted like a stage
transporting aging me from youth to now,
but plowed a wrinkling path from “huh” to “how.”