Musing

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.”