Its December, another year is just about over.
Standing in front of a bathroom mirror
Is a man. He gazes into the face looking back at him,
Combs his white hair with his fingers and then begins:

                 Musing
My hair it seems is always whiter during
The winter months. It really isn't
But seeing hair already gray, aging
Becomes a prime concern. My life, a glint
In darkness; insignificant footprints in time
Is always struggling forward, nearing some
Unreachable ideal, lacking rhyme 
Or reason. Now I ponder life's outcome
This cold December, standing here alone
In front of glass. The image looking back 
Is old!  My God! Is youth that fleeting? Prone
Toward dependency, asthma attacks
And wooden canes? He winks and shakes his head
And smiles, then says,” I’d sooner be old than dead.”