One of my mother’s mass mailings to myself and my siblings included a humorous observation with regard to my father, from which I wrote a poem:
“Himself at (almost) 99 Years”
When last seen, barely hanging
onto life, old enough to die,
angry, and yes, he said, too
tired to move from off his bed.
Now again espied, he’s spent
two hours raking out a rock
garden and the two-lot yard,
filling 20 bags with leaves and
started hauling them away.
What wonders come from too much
time that’s spent in idleness,
staring at the ceiling and
muttering about the aches
that he now cheerfully ignores.
Copyright © 2015-10-24, by myself.