You get to a certain age and
your memory becomes like
that snow falling outside
upon an even older snow fall.
You’ve left footprints in that earlier one,
each an impression, something
you can look back to and say,
“I’ve been there.”
And with each sweep of falling flakes,
the scope of your vision loses clarity
and those footprints, become
It’s not the snow I curse.
That’s what led to those original imprints
in this smooth canvas of the life
I’ve traversed. I just wish I could find them
a little easier when this snow ends.
But it doesn’t seem to end,
it keeps falling, sometimes
just a flurry, others a blizzard.
Now I stand in place, the flakes
falling upon my shoulders,
dimming any recognition of me,
until I straighten my spine,
suck in a deep, bracing breath and
testify in my Come-to-Jesus voice,
“Yeah, I’ve been there…
…but now I’m here.”
My friend, the writer Jo-Anne Teal, has pointed out that many of my poems resonate experiences to those of us who’ve attained “a certain age.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear that, wanting to appear the younger, flat-bellied, dark-haired Guy I thought I once was. But she’s right. I can only tell you what I know, where I’ve been, maybe even what I feel (God help us all). So now I’m okay with “owning” this new-life position of poet-of-a-certain-age because that’s what I am. And I’ve got some things to tell you before the snow falls too hard or gets too deep and I can’t find my way back anymore. This is a poetic picture of my footprints.