At 87 ...

outliving two husbands and a son, and her cat,

she bemoans living this long, too long,

not the life she’s lived, of course, a full past,

but the one she can’t have now, slowed

by age and health, a body weakened and wearing down,

a heart attacked, and a mind unable to remember,

remembering only what had been -

though the dates and places, people, get jumbled

some - and what she cannot do now:

an un-split cord of wood awaiting

someone else’s axe or a roof, snow-covered,

still un-cleared, left to others, more fit,

the short jaunt to town now a journey

she cannot take, tired and winded

at the end of the driveway, and unable to go on,

turning back, tired and winded at her door,

facing the frustration of outliving her life,

a life grown old and dependent, too long,

fighting the burden she fears she has become

and burdening herself in trying to forget.