TRANSITIONS

I’m happiest, I think, when life proceeds
With gradual changes: buds that slowly uncurl;
Leaves with color shifts that take the whole
Of autumnal blending; babies that seem to need

Years to move from cradle to crib to cot;
Teens whose body hair appears a spear
At a time. I hate the book that nestles near
The table’s edge until it’s overshot

And plunges. Likewise the glass that creeps across
The wiggly counter until it falls and smashes.
Today it’s the years. The “seventy-seven” flashes
Onto seventy-eight, which jauntily tosses

Me into the octogenarian pool to feel
How suddenly old I’m feeling. Feeling is real!

(143, January 3, 1994)

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