Being Wise Twenty-Five

     Three pink cosmos blooms and a bud. Janet Wyatt 2020

Being Wise Twenty-Five July 25, 2021

Reading, reading. Human error. We

make so many. Around me, but at a

distance, desperate people are dying.

Our Covid returns, full force and

worse. I have my own disease and its

medicine. No more numbness, but I

forget more. I’m writing notes now

in my diary to keep track. I still write

poetry. I still make supper. I start the

wash. I make the grocery list. Two 

women say to call them if I need 

someone, if I fall and can’t get up. 

Two others come to help. Tim carries

my dishes after meals. I sometimes

drop my fork or knife. I begin to have

my real old age. Memory lapses, but

so far I catch and correct them. I

publish new poems on my blog. My

voice is quieter than once.. I let

others carry my activist burden. I’ll

observe and write. Let the poems do

more work. I’ll keep reading human

history, suffer human error. I’ve done

my share of loving, and I’ve been

loved, too passionately for it to last.

And yet it lasted. I’m satisfied. What

I felt those years, albeit the poems,

stays and stays, will never be lost. I’ve

suffered, yet known ecstatic heights.

One word is sometimes enough.