On Being Eighty

by richibi

if being eighty is a condition for writing so beautiful a poem,
how can that age be anything but precious, being eighty
must be a blessing only someone not eighty then can know,
never a “shadow”, never ever a “cobweb” 
a friend responded to my own poem with something of hers,
to which I could not but cede before its greater, its more
poignant, its more probing, its more pressing, beauty 
with applause
On Being Eighty

There’s been a subtle change, a feeling of absence,
I am an echo in the empty space 
Where once I stood among the crowd.
I am a shadow of the past
That haunts the edges of the world

I am the shadow that haunts my children
I am the shadow that clings like cobweb 
Entangling them with guilt. 
                                   a friend