Fable-ous Fifty-Eight

Fable-ous Fifty-Eight

Fifty-eight.
Plodding fifty-eight.
More laden with death now,
Then when I started long ago,
With hare intentions,
And, tortoise timidity.

Fifty-eight.
I turtle on,
Head down, face clay smacked,
Determined to keep moving –
Open sea or quaint pond in my future.
Was there a ever race?

Fifty-eight.
Not quite what I imagined:
The soft underbelly of youth remaining.
But, not untenable at the end of the day,
Armored in my recliner.

© Sally Paradise, 2011, All Rights Reserved

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