Sylvia, how fast thy youth has flown!
Thou art, I am afraid, an ancient crone
Upon thy cheeks, the wrinkles time’s bestowed
Around thy eyes, the furrowed feet of crows
Thy mouth is pinched up tightly—suck’st thou limes?
Thy back, once straight, now hunches, arced like time
The worms of age have burrowed in thy brain
Thy eyes are glassy, senile, old and tame
Thy desiccated larynx thins thy voice
Thou eat’st mush, thy throat gives thee no choice
Alas, old dog! No tricks now canst thy learn!
Thy lifeline tapers, narrows, like a fern
Thy—wait, what say’st thou? That thou art ONE?
That thou hast lived just twelve small months of fun?
Well then the world’s thy oyster! Slurp it up!
You hold the world inside your sippy cup!
You’ll find great treasures, grand parades of joy!
Time sits before you like a wind-up toy!
And shame on me for starting out this verse
With lines not meant for high chair, but for hearse!
Although I sometimes get the two confused…
Since life and death so beautifully are fused.
