Uncertainty Poem by Roger Gerald Hicks

Old, a septuagenarian, my world is closing in- not
so much like being tackled by a bunch of linesman,
but in the sense everything is disappearing.

Older each day and a little more fearful,
I think I should be spinning a cocoon
like the little worms who live on mullberry leaves,
whose cocoons are so valuable
they provide the finest cloth,
suitable for princes and queens.

I think sometimes it's time to spin a cocoon
from which a new me could arise with new form-
a form of- I don't know what- any form.
But I can't make silk.No man can make silk;
nor arise from his own ending.

The only silk I can make is sentences;
words hanging together loosely,
like nails on a magnet.

The only cocoon is the world closing
in and with so many things disappearing
I must remember to hold to the very last
the sight of those I love.

Those of my ilk
who in the world, shimmer like silk.