It must be

It must be

the years that make this body turn too soon

from dream or take too long to go to sleep. 

When it’s still enough, I can hear the wolves

who fill my lungs each night but pull back

if they get too near.

It’s not my self that’s changed.  I know

better now than take two stairs at once

or leap from the stoop in full pursuit

when some teaser tests my pride.  I walk

where others run. I have to stretch my stride

to keep pace with Nita—three years more young.

While I no longer hear the birds who sing

too high, I wish them well and put out seeds

to bring them near—but listen for the owl.

                             —Donnell Hunter

                                        2 January 2012