Being older doesn’t make me any less

a kid still holding what was precious then,

though now they’re tarnished and I must confess

dulled by these aging hands and yet, again

and again I hold those ideals to the light—

sometimes the sun, sometimes the turning moon--

looking for that sparkle, that radiant sight,

and again I want the warmth of noon,

the sweetness of the air, the tender breeze

of dreaming what could be, so full of fire,

so wanting to believe my heart and squeeze

with my embracing soul all that I desire.

And here I am still holding what I love

like she’s the woman I’ve been dreaming of.

What happens to the wonder and the passion,

the exquisite knowing of how you want to live,

what you want to see and do, how you fashion

and create the self you want to be and give

all that you have made as if your life is art?

Even now, it’s hard not letting go of longing

for the zeal, the hope still beating in my heart,

the urge to hit the road and right the wronging

all around me and rage against despair.

It’s hard remembering the blazing fire,

the heat of voices rising in the air,

shouting for the world all that I desire,

hard getting older and still holding on

to what I held and hoped when it was dawn.

But, here I am wondering if I’m wiser

with so many years behind me now;

And yet, these feelings rising like a geyser

deep inside me come when I remember how

I dreamed of what could be when I was young,

how I thought and said to friends, if only

we can wake what’s best in all of those among

us--then no one would be poor, or sad, or lonely.

If I was foolish then, am I a fool

to hold up to the light and still believe

in what could be? Am I a stubborn mule

with a broken heart dangling from my sleeve,

refusing to let age wither what I’ve held so long,

not letting go, not caring now, if I’m wrong.