The years pass without ceremony. They do not always announce themselves. Sometimes they slip by like quiet weather, like afternoons we cannot later recall except by the way the light once rested against a wall. Time moves like autumn wind, unannounced, persistent, tender in its own indifferent way. A milkweed stands in a field, having
The milkweed and the wind: a poem on aging as renewal originally appeared in KevinMD.com.
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