How is it I have grown old, old in the best of ways they call “aged” and priced and valued as such, and hard to find.
How is it I have grown old and at the same time renewed, this quiver in my hand more steady on the page.
How is it I have grown old as my dad, older still, his love nestled in my heart as a buried root.
And here as for all things and all times we are buried ourselves, our age embedded and grown inwards as we become more a part of the earth for our time on it,
more in touch with the ground from which we came, to which we return emptied and spent, old to begin once more.