Still Living

Sometimes as I look at the world, I think,
“It’s a good thing that I’m on the brink.”

At eighty years old, I’ve not long to go.
Will I outlast democracy? I really don’t know.

And then I look at what I have left to do,
Books I have started, and never seen through.

And that isn’t all as new ideas come to mind
I so want to write them, but where will I find

The time that is needed to get all of it done?
I need a hundred years, or else help from someone.

Then, thinking of dying brings me up short.
I have closets to clean and items to sort.

How much longer until I fall dead?
I’d better just say what needs to be said.

Do for my children what lightens their task.
And answer the questions they forgot to ask.

I’ve books I should rewrite, but first I must toss
Rubbish and old stuff gathering moss.

But I find myself stymied by so much to do,
I dare not, though I want to, start something new.

But then I realize, as I’ve thought of my age,
I’ve put life on hold; I’ve built me a cage.

And so, as I’m thinking of the day I will die,
I’ve forgotten to live, and I’m wondering why.