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On Being A Nonagenarian (poem)

By Woody Powell

Distant memories come closer, gain clarity,
pre-empt current concerns retreating from urgency.

Affairs of state, while interesting,
are less so than people's responses to them.

Degrees of activism depend more on one's legs,
one's energy levels, one's endurance.
The flame, now lambent,
that once flared so brightly,
still lights a certain way.

Landscapes once hosting wild things
now scarred by roads, encrusted by buildings,
thoroughly tamed.

Highways give way to interstates
avoiding towns, stalking through cities on stilts,
towering in sterile air.

Indeed, nature has retreated
threatening to abandon the human race.

Dead people come into focus
as friends diminish in number.
Remaining friends, new friends,
are much to be treasured.

Routines are an antidote
to forgetfulness.

Progeny, while almost always lovable,
have become inhabitants of another world.

—Woody Powell