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Tipping Point (poem)

By Woody Powell

I felt just like
a capless bottle tipping,
falling over and spilling
the precious remnants
of the life force within.

With each fall
there was that slight diminishment
of confidence;
Confidence that my feet
would do what was expected of them,
confidence that my bones might not break.

The capacity to engage life fully
was leaking, forming a pool
of distant memories
laden with contentment and regret,
joy and sadness,
satisfaction and discontent.

There is an end to everything,
infirmity and reflection
presage my own.