I think continually of pliant bodies, of dancers'
sculpted thighs, or the well muscled calves
of sprinters who win gold. How rapidly green
vanishes. How well December fills the last crannies
of sensation, a door freezing winds slam so tight
no hands can ever pry it open. The demands
of being old lose urgency when the task of dying
asserts its rights, a subpoena bones can't refuse.

Forget the victories sealed in cadenzas, in sharps,
or the defeats well hidden among black keys
in decrescendo flats. They are the substance
of the stone in which your name is to be chiseled,
that will loom above the bouquets, roses, violets,
and lilies, that will finally bedeck your second life.