It’s a tipping, growing old.
Your feet are on solid ground and then
You begin to tip.

That trusted earth,
Like a seesaw,
Starts its tilting, and the darkness rushes you.

Slow at first,
A subtle sensation in toes then
—whoosh!

So it happens.
You are old(er).
The photo album is a zap of clarity:

Damn, you were so beautiful,
so sharp, so handsome.
Why such worry?

Nowadays, the mirror
Struggles to convince you.
“You should fear more than ever—you are old!”

But, like the stoic
You always dreamed of,
Replies with shrug.

“Eh. So I am.”
And the days are full of
Talk and telling.