Now "when" becomes "if."
The horizon starts to lower.
You realize you have a sell-by date.
And the deer are always going to win
the battle of the garden.
You will never be reconciled
to losing friends.
You are not going to lose the weight
from that last baby.
Or finish your reading list.
Still, red wine goes with everything.
There is always chocolate.
Spring never gets old.
You don't need a partner to dance.
Barbara Crooker, poem first appeared in The Paterson Literary Review
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