Unknowns

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