Experience suggests that life comes with limits.
I tell myself that the Art of Living
May lie in ways of
Working with these personal boundaries..
Rather than railing against them.
Tight hands grip the arms of the chair,
as I rise –
My weakness of limb I no longer disguise.
From doctor to patient,
requiring a nursemaid.
At times I look forward to boosting the hearse trade.
Spare me sweet patience,
Your kindness won’t do.
A life in the alms house is not what I choose.
While carers encourage my effort in movement,
The last thing I need is:
“Oh, what an improvement!”
Long term inflammation’s
my unwanted house-guest.
The blood tests are showing stale-mate but not conquest.
Now paid baby-sitters
must stay in my home lest
I fall in the night and am found with my pants messed.
Age and infirmity.
– I squirm and pride fades –
I tried to embrace these unlovely bridesmaids.
My heart is so weary,
my joints are so tired they’d
Welcome release, in the knowledge I’d paid
the debts which fell due in this life,
I will focus my thoughts as I ration my musing.
I have girded my loins and I’ll limit my snoozing.
To stumble, but finish,
cannot be called losing.
“…that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
Ulysses, Alfred Lord Tennyson