A poem about the impossibility of personal perfection.

Little girls of the night…

I’ve dreaded old age. Now that I am 65 and officially old, I have a new ambition – to be really old. I will give myself over to the small beauties of everyday life that leap into me like an arc of electricity between poles. I also want to face fears of infirmity and the patronizing words and actions of younger people. We who were once young are now old. You who are now young will be old. This is not a burden, but an acceptance of what it means to be alive.