I've never been afraid of growing old,

But growing bolder makes me feel so young,

And what is boldness, but a simple game of chess against Time, 

Where all I remember—all I know—is a mirage of myself

As I try, emboldened by the sunlight and the smell of rain to know

Exactly what youth is, and what happens in its wake.

I wonder what it will be like—my wake—

For it seems, sometimes, in the glow of late November, in the sun of early May, as if old

Is such a foreign concept that it may never cross my mind to know.

Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to be young;

Perhaps it's a winter feeling, Hanukkah candles on December 2, 2018, an echo of myself

When the patter of rainfall replaces my voice, becomes the hands of my clock, telling time.

There are a hundred things that come only with time, in time, on the shoulders of time,

And growing old is among them, because youth is a necessary dream from which I'll wake,

One day, well-worn, an old-cotton, loved-book, know-more-but-not-all version of myself,

And I'm not sure whether I'm growing bold or simply old,

Bolder or simply older, that is—a new kind of me, or maybe I'm made of secrets or simply young,

But who can tell, when there's nothing new to know, just new ways with which to know?

I've known a fair amount for a fairly long time, so it doesn't seem fair that there's little I know.

Does that make sense? I thought not. I try to make sure to remember noon, since it’s the time

For a healthy dose of nonsense at least once a day. It keeps the mind fresh, keeps you young,

Because to a well-organized mind, nonsense make sure that every day, you wake

Up, for without it, what are you, really? Nonsense feeds life, which makes you grow old.

An example: if I am yours and you are mine, what is the difference between yourself and myself?

Age is something that happens to other people, and I never worry about it happening to myself.

Why should I? Growing old is something that can be stopped, and that much we know—

Extend your telomeres indefinitely, and, hypothetically, you will never grow old,

But it's called growing old for a reason—without age, you stop growing, you keep time

By tracking youth even as you forget what it's like to be any age, and in the wake

Of immortality, you are forced to witness the death of both being wise and being young.

Those rarely go together: seldom friendly, like fear and truth, are being wise and being young.

There's the kind of kid-wisdom that comes in smoke, the wisdom I keep away from myself

Because it may well corrupt true wisdom in favor of hastening my wake.

But, for the sake of knowledge and kindness, old age is something I desire to know

The joint-creaking, blue-cataract, grey-streaks in my hair are things I’ll find in due time,

Maybe age deteriorates the mind, sets opinions in stone, but some grow wiser when they get old.

I understand what kind of autumn-sun mind I, myself, will eventually have to know,

And as much as the tune of the young sings in my soul, age is rumination's real keeper of time.

They say fortune favors the bold in the wake of recklessness, but maybe it favors the old.