Who will I be when I grow old…
will I sit and babble nonsense rhyme
old poems and remnants left behind—
when those final years take hold.
Will past and present merge as one,
as mind relinquishes control;
or stay alert, my thoughts left whole
while body starts to come undone.
No gypsy fortune-tellers, we...
what lies before us, undefined;
should favor nod as we decline
perhaps we'll keep our sanity.
Yes, all things acquiesce to time…
we only hope the years are kind.
© Ginny Brannan 2017