I don’t know why I can’t do things I enjoy. They have to have a purpose (like putting things away–I enjoy that AND it achieves something necessary). Not just BE the purpose. I like jigsaw puzzles but I won’t let myself do one, though I stare at it and think about it. I have let myself try this adult coloring thing though. I had to MAKE myself, but the only point to it was to do it. And then this morning, I got a line. A line for a poem. Almost like a reward. It’s a poem that has been written better by others, yes. BUT it is mine and it was so good to feel the muse for a moment.
When You Get Old
When you get old
You do not shake
Each time you walk to the market.
When you get old
Though your hands are knotted
And scarred
You don’t hide them
In your pockets.
When you get old
It doesn’t matter
That your belly is soft
And your arms wobble some.
When you get old
The clothes you choose,
Black skirt, big boots
Are just the clothes you choose.
When you get old
You have spent so long
Under the disapproving looks
Of those at the meetings,
In the halls and the cafeterias
and the stores,
That you laugh and make a face
Or you just can’t
See them anymore.
When you get old
You find the time
For jigsaw pieces
and colored pencils
and maybe even
dancing again.
When you get old
It seems like
One
Long
Exhale of
held breath.
©JyllianMartini
