That Old Race (Sonnet)

This morning in some bed, I woke up old!

The birds flew low, expressing gratitude

for years they watched me flying down the road,

that time between soft wings, our interlude.

But out by sea, the rhythm changed and soothed;

the boardwalk shadows, fences, grasses and such

bestowed their sultry kisses like some booth

from teen-age years, when virtue was a touch.

Hold me—long embrace—my Dearest Clouds!

Your icy white unfurled across the sky!

I take you back, you early angry words,

wipe the slate, then kill the verb “to die.”

My heart knocks out a steady even pace,

yet never quite re-captures that old race.

Kay Weeks, content, painting...

6.5.12 at Rehoboth Beach, DE