On Turning 68

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They sneak up on you, the years, like a summer cold

One minute you’re thirty-two, the next you’re old

Not a big deal, more a speed bump on the road

     to something serious, impossible to ignore

All the more reason to keep it simple: no moaning,

     no mirrors, no regrets

A toast to life, then, and maybe later a jig to the

     strains of Prokofiev.