it is not the passing summers
but the steep uneven stairs
that make my body shiver
though the years have softened
my bones hold a quiet rebellion
against chairs that kiss the ground
my eyes blur the tiny whispers
on the pages i once loved
aging is not the storm’s roar
it is the slow steady drizzle
slipping under the doorframe
settling into unlit corners
i am not afraid of time’s pull
but of life becoming smaller
measured in inches and aches
mapped by what is out of reach