Middle-Strided

I am middle-aged; that long pause between bikinis and Birkenstocks
A blushing bride juxtaposed to sagacious grandmother, I
Arrive magically at the kismet of this strange half life enabled
To see the mile markers of my past distinct from the road up ahead.

I'll never be this young again.

Feeling the edgy anxiousness of frittered days
Treasures tossed with no recompense; like Silas Marner
I hoard them, as if clutching each one tightly
Can somehow extract 26 hours from the earth's revolution.

Procrastination appends the Seven to Eight; unshruggable
"Time's a-wastin’" smeared angrily in Max Factor Red
Across the steely mirrored reflection of the years
When did I become my mother?

I've never been this old before.

Constrained by fear, but unwilling to be shackled
Like an aged river and the stones that line its path
I am current-washed smooth; veins of lapis and turquoise
Shining brightly in the deep waters, unexpected gifts.

I revel in an odd new comfort of enlightened wisdom
Unwilling to trade such benefaction for fair-faced youth
And no longer racing counterclockwise through life
I find my memories have become good company for this journey.