At middle age, review sets in,
a dusty corner where shiny tiles had been,
and the niggling mind places the what-once-was
into a forged lie,
back amongst the honed and possible.
Where you were no longer matters,
but what you were shines bright,
and the vagueness of slackening muscles
defines that lost, as gouges left by the easer,
an indentation of sure prowess.
Old men watch the weather.
Young men challenge it.
Middle age men imagine it's change
to mark the wetness of where spring grass will be,
to remember the chore of raking leaves.
To close one's eyes begins the flood
and voids the impeding storm,
allowing the sound of small waves
to float that idle mind in revelry
in its quest for a balance of strength.