The morning after Christmas dawns
The tree bedecked with lights adorns.
But loved ones scuttled to their homes
No more the joy and laugher roams.
Only photos mark the place
And filial love and fun replace.
And yet, if I’m to answer true
My head is pounding, and I rue
The ceasless round of food and drink
I’ve got too old for this I think.
Not too old for joy, and hugs,
Not too old for cuddle bugs.
Love each moment with my kids
And their offspring and their vid’s.
But at my age I need to pause
Rest, recuperate from chores
Listen to the still clear vioce
That makes the inner me rejioce.
I am so blessed in all you see
I think old age is suiting me.