Some say, I’m in the most
vulnerable group waiting
for the virus to overtake me.
Others of us say, bring it on.
The body of an old man
is not like a withered tree
spindly-limbed legs, eyes
dim and going dimmer
hands frail and fragile,
the last leaf of an aging spruce
or willow, body bare as
maple or boxwood come
waning days of autumn.
An old man’s body is
a well-tuned bass
standing upright
leaning into its player
focused fondly strumming
taut strings but yielding
deep-toned music
resonating with grace.
Earl J. Wilcox is in his eighth decade.
