Poetry by A.A. Loria

I do not Fear Aging, for I Know it is a Gift

I will grow old.

This is not spoken as an inevitable,

But offered as a promise;

That I will grow old,

And that I will love it.

I will grow old,

And I will have wrinkles,

And crow’s feet,

And frown lines and white hair,

And what a wonderful thing,

I’ll say;

What a wonderful thing it is,

To be old.

I will spend my summers under the hot sun,

And I will let it bake wrinkles into my skin,

Like crackling sourdough in my oven.

I will spend my falls walking among the leaves,

And I will listen for the crunch under my boots,

Long after I am hearing through hearing aids.

I will spend my winters with my favourite mug never far,

And I will bake the gingerbread recipe that I never measure,

Because I cherished the memory of the taste over precision.

I will spend my springs dancing in the rain,

And I will turn my face to the sky so that I never forget the clouds,

Even when my eyes have gone and glasses aren’t enough. 

I will grow old,

Because if I die young this poem will be a tragedy,

And I demand a happy ending.

I have lived my youth in agony,

I am older than I ever dreamt of reaching,

And I am only getting older.

What a wonderful thing that is,

I say;

I am only getting older.