Sixty-Three

This morning
the light came softly
through the curtain,

not demanding anything.

Just the quiet gold of day
arriving again.

I stood there a moment
listening to my body—
the small complaints of bone and muscle,
like birds clearing their throats
before song.

Once
I hurried through mornings.

I thought time was something
I had to outrun,

as if the day might close its doors
before I reached them.

Now
I move more slowly.

There is enough light
for whatever remains.

I have learned a few things.

Love, for instance,
is not something you win.

It is something you build
patiently,
out of forgiveness
and the willingness
to stay.

Looking in the mirror
I see the map time has drawn:

lines beside the eyes
from laughter,

silver beginning in the hair
like frost on grass.

I do not mind it.

It feels earned.

Sixty-three.

A number, yes—
but also a shoreline

where many waves
have already broken.

I stand here barefoot
in the tide of it,

watching the years
move out and return.

Ambition grows quieter now.

What matters more
is mercy—

how gently it steadies the hand,
how it makes room
for joy

even in the tired places.

Of course
there are things unfinished.

Songs I never wrote.
Words I never spoke.

But they rest easily now,
like feathers
in an open palm.

The future does not frighten me.

It comes
as evening comes to hills—
slowly,
with honey-colored light.

When it arrives
I will meet it

with whatever light
I still carry,

and scatter it freely
along the road

for whoever walks there next.

And when my name is gone
from the air,

let there remain
something simple—

the memory
that someone stood here once,
looked out at the horizon,
and was grateful.