Envious

I envy eighty.

Even more, ninety.

Creases on hands, on face…on heart.

Signs of time

well-spent in living.

 

I envy races

with end in sight;

no longer run

to beat and conquer

but run

to finish

and find rest.

 

I envy books

nearly read;

lopsided pages

thin as a whisper against back cover

and turned

with trembling anticipation.

 

I envy winter

and soft snow falling;

bring quiet to chaos

no more striving

no more building

no more blooming

no more growing

 

only sleeping.

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