We take comfort where we can —
the cuddle of a soft chair that rocks;
rich chocolate, ripe berries
on tongues hungry for savor;
a healer’s hands on aches holding
lost assurances of potency and privilege.

Age sucks from our days the granted
pleasures of the unknowing young,
whose dreams of hope and promise
bring fervor and spice to their days.

Instead, our days task us with
the release of expectations,
tbe realities of dispiriting limits,
leaving our nights to wrestle with
unexpected regrets and
pointless Escher dreams.