My Age Is My Enemy
Moving on the mountains behind us,
The wild horses, numbering eight
Or ten, wary of humans,
Plunge deeper into the woods.
Night falls quickly, covering
The hillside and making
The descent more difficult for me
And my son. He pushes on,
Worried about the storm he hears
Coming up over the mountains. My age
Is my enemy, and all my fears
Are gathered in a runaway heartbeat,
Which thunders like those horses running
Up the mountain, into the woods, in the heat
Of the moment. But he, my son, is strong
And I believe in him. In sum, we saw
What we came to see, but stayed too long.
Darkness surrounds us, on every side.