Not A Clue

By John I. Blair

The day I find no hints
Of failing mind
You can think for sure
I’m there already.

When I squint
Into a mirror
I see forty, fifty most;
Yet others my own age
To me seem wrinkled
Graying geezers.

Though being blind to loss
Is no protection,
This inability
To grasp my own decline
Is Nature’s funny way
Of being kind.

©2011 John I. Blair

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