One of the sweeter gifts of getting old
Is that you start to see how the future
Doesn't really flow out of the past
But is its own bright river making its way
Youthful and brilliant and jostling
From the opposite invisible shore
Urgent with new impulses
Swirling into eddies and strange twists
You would never have imagined
Until it merges with the past
Which usually tries to drag it down
Right there where there's a waterfall
The roar of the one pouring into the other
The silence of the present moment
Where you are neither old nor young
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