The hour hand does not appear to move.
My eye cannot perceive the micron growth
of rosebuds in the garden. Mornings prove
the difference – passing time reveals them both
in motion – but to me they’re not overt.
I tend to think today is quite the same
as yesterday, in substance: not alert
to subtle change in what my life became.

Viewed over time, I can’t deny the shift
in waking mood, in goals and energy.
Regarding old assumptions now, I sift
ideas to true my customs to agree
with who I am of late, and how I do
my minutes best, upon this month’s review.

This entry was posted in Aging, Philosophy, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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