Jan Sand (February 2 1926 / USA)
Old age is a journey
Into an unfamiliar country
On an alien planet.
Common sights, common sounds
Ring old bells in the mind.
Hills are steeper, gravity stronger
And the very substance of the body
Bonds more weakly
So that bone and muscle spalls.
The skin, a transparent membrane,
A map of blue roads inscribed on parchment.
Perceptions fragment and the idea of self
Shimmers in strong light
Like a cloud of dandelion seeds,
To dissipate and flee
Before the slightest breeze.
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