I don’t think I am old yet. Maybe that’s because I don’t want to stop growing.
I no longer hunger busyness. I have a taste for a quiet place, around me and in me.
I thirst a quenchable thirst. I’m satisfied by soft unspoken Word that plays no tricks on my mind.
I have a new affection for things with wings and feathers that I notice from edges of rooftops.
I am not envious of time. It is to me like endless running water, in and through and all about me.