Gills

Sometimes I write poetry. Sometimes it's good! And most of the time it's not really meant for sharing. 

Today I spent some time unpacking and sorting out my belongings. I don't know about anyone else, but I have a bad habit of stuffing the little pieces of paper on which I write poems, quotes, lists, reminders or inspiring thoughts into random places. Later, I find them in purse pockets, change purses, jacket pockets, inside books, dresser drawers, at the bottom of an overnight bag, and in a host of other places. It's become a habit I enjoy-- a gift to my future self. I find my own thoughts again later on, and sometimes they bring me full circle, to an important realization, and other times they help me recall moments and memories I didn't realize I hadn't thought about in a while. 

I've been carrying this poem around since last fall, and every time I find it and read it I think I like it more. It's not deeply insightful or life-changing, but it reflects where I was, mentally, at the time. 

You are not young. 

You never were.

You are not young:

You're as old as these hills, 

As the ocean you crawled from

When you still had your gills.

You are not young, 

But you're learning.

You are not old. 

You'll never be.

You are not ancient:

You're as new as this moment

As the burn of the sun

And the pulse of the tide.
You are not old,

But you're still yearning. 

~