As cool as foliage, this morning feels,
as sweet as cantaloupe and light as fern.
I walk to downtown Berkeley and my heels
don’t ache, my neck is loose; I do not yearn
for anything beyond my limbered reach.
Mature enough to misremember youth
I watch my kids. I listen to their speech.
I laugh myself to bed with broken tooth.
I’ll recollect this morning when I’m old.
I’ll reminisce about a sky still blue
as cornflowers, and space between the cars.
I’ll long for now when summer’s never cold
at dawn, when height no longer makes a view,
when special refuse smudges out the stars.
(I was 48 when I started this one, 58 when I edited it thoroughly, 61 now. Conditions haven’t degenerated as fast as I then feared …)