When Old Monk reaches for her pen, a moment of shock.
Whose hands are these, she asks?
Deep blue veins rise to the surface, prominent
against rice paper skin, cracked like desert clay.
Only one thing left to do.
Old Monk puts pen to paper and waits.
Maybe today words will flow
Maybe not….Tomorrow she will begin again.
When did you notice that death had at least one foot in your front door? I guess there are a lot of ways to react to getting old. You can deny it. Try to conceal it. Camouflage it. Or accept it and get on with life. There is still work to do. Good work that only you can do. I knew a genius potter who had one poster on his wall. It was a picture of an old white-bearded Jewish Hasidic scholar, pen in hand, bent over reams of scrolls and writing still. Underneath were the words, “Work, just work.”