It Is Time: A Poem About Growing Old by Lu Sobredo

THE POET IN US

This poem came unexpectedly this early evening. It couldn't be ignored. I soon posted it on social media and three friends reacted in this way:

Friend K: Thank you for sharing this. I have found myself in unusually pensive states recently, and contemplating "this precious human life" and remembering that life is impermanent, like a water bubble.

I have recently seen, encountered, or happened to come across visuals and writings that shed light. They have been well timed as I could have gone down a rabbit hole that is not beneficial.

Thank you for being part of that light

Friend J: This reminds me of my advanced age. It saddens me that it is toward the end and also calms me with sweet memories.

And yet another dear friend wrote: You reached down into the infinite depths of your being to write this poem---I must read it many times over but I think it's MAGNIFICENT!

This poem is about growing old. It is about acceptance, and appreciating the journey.

IT IS TIME

When questions spewing from the mouth

have lost their value, their allure

and all their luster, then toss them in the box

labeled—irrelevant—as it is time.

Time to steel the self, and face the ending

drawing near. Don’t awaken self-pity,

tempt remorse or empty out all that ever

mattered...keep them in the box.

Keep all that ever lived

and everything birthed from love in spring.

Springtime enshrouds the living,

intoxicates the weary, even disguises

the shriveling leaves from view. Spring showers

camouflage tears and pain

from view. Even the self recognizes not—

how precious hours and minutes

have fooled the fragile flesh, how

time stole youth, blurred memory

and bandaged scars earned

traversing ugly and cruel hurdles

of a life hard-fought. A real life well-lived.

One hopes that it was for real; that all transgressions

were real, forgiven and worthy of lessons taught

and not merely a mirage cleverly concocted

from deceit of a desperate imagination.

There is no longer a need for questions,

nor is there time for useless thoughts,

improbable wishes or unhealed wounds.

There is, however, just enough room

to simply thank a universe which coddled,

tested and aged the body even the mind,

and spared the soul.

A favorite photo—A Peaceful Midnight in San Sebastían, Spain

Winter 2018

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