I move lightly at sixty

I move lightly at sixty,

a little less than the max.

Any faster, and the sunflower shells I spit

blow back in my face,

and any slower and the driver behind

becomes too distressed.

I move lightly at sixty,

homeward, through the rural landscape,

past barns and combines,

engine humming, without straining,

secure that I need not be anywhere,

or anything, but myself.

I move lightly at sixty,

through the longer shadows of fall,

short days and warm afternoons,

trees variegated with the leafy

nostalgias of the year past,

and the years before.

I move lightly at sixty,

the old van’s engine drones

as I “OM”, indistinguishable

one from the other, both well worn,

and oblivious of the

years we show.

I move lightly at sixty,

no longer with a need to lie,

or prevaricate,

in love with every woman I see,

and no longer afraid

to say so.

I move lightly at sixty,

in love with the journey,

rather than the goal.

In love with the moment

rather than the hour and

the need to mark it.

I move lightly at sixty,

bemused by public anger over

a rapper’s words, knowing they

are far less harmful

than the blood shed

in my time.

I move lightly at sixty,

ready to gear down if necessary,

still able to speed up if needed,

to avoid the hazards

of an overactive ego

and libido.

I move lightly at sixty,

content to be alone,

joyful to have company,

regretting neither,

thankful for old friends,

and old loves.

I move lightly at sixty,

finding that not acting,

is as important as the act,

knowing that one can be undone,

and the other,

can’t.

I move lightly at sixty,

like a comfortable breeze

on a fall day, a thermal for a bird,

uplift for a friend,

a drying wind for a

tearful cheek.