Sixty years old

Michael Gollin
July 3, 2017

Sixty years old
At fifty five, I slowed down.
I had been going fast and faster.
I lost running, walking unaided, walking at all, standing.
I lost typing, driving, using tools, gardening.
I lost eating solids, eating liquids.
I lost hugging and kissing.
I have my five senses and the sixth one, love.
I am grateful for the insurance and money
to afford round the clock care.
My eyes work, and I have a little motion in my neck and left arm.
All night I dream I am healthy.
I am enveloped in love.
It  is a tragedy to die in your fifties,
but it’s just bad luck to die in your sixties.
An improvement.

Cool Green Flame

Cool Green Flame
May 2014
Michael Gollin

The oak tree blooms with a cool green flame,
not the orange fire of seasoned wood.
Sunlight coils inward, photons kiss chlorophyll
with energy that fuses sugar from air and water,
and busy enzymes do their duty,
conceiving leaf, growth, tree, life.

Green are the photons that are not used, wasted,
reflected back to please my eye.

I am a tree.
I, too, breathe air, drink water,
take energy, and burn (but with biothermal warmth).
I lose my leaves. My limbs break and fall.
Yet I grow taller, adding rings,
as long as I can find the light.

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