Fourty-seven is the new "almost 50"

Yup, another birthday.

Here's a poem I wrote about age, ages ago:


POLKA

His mother grew
old today
seasoned perhaps
without his notice
gone
the soccer playing, polka-fiend
she'd always been

Damn that woman
could polka
whipping him (embraced)
around a dance flor
2 beats aside (step, kick)
German accordians cheering
his feet swinging out
a joy
of centrifugal force
until with time
his strength grown
it was her feet
refusing
gravity with each squeal, each
frenetic twist and direction change

He felt
his mother old today
felt winter, an embrace that recalled
(in its absence)
the strong back
of their dancing days