We’d carve the ice
On rockered blades of steel,
Darting, dashing, in and out,
Around and through big bodies
Seeking somehow to impede us—

Hooking, holding, interfering
With the speed and elusiveness
We displayed so confidently
Before we scored the winner.
—And then we got old.
We’d sprint on grass
Of green, emerald beneath
The bright lights that marked the field,
From the crack of bat on ball,
Tracking a white parabola
Arcing high against nighttime sky,

‘Til over shoulder it settled
In weathered, leather fielder’s glove.
The final out recorded.
—And then we got old.
We’d skim the waves
On cedar slalom board,
Jumping wake and swinging wide,
Ear almost touching water,
Leaning hard against the boat’s pull,
Great rooster-tails of froth tossed high,
Spraying, sparkling, sunlit curtain.

Near shore, we’d drop the rope and sink
Into water’s cool cocoon.
—And then we got old.
So now we dream
Throughout the endless nights
Of days of grace and glory.
Jagged, jumbled jigs of light
Run helter-skelter through our dreams,
Random reminiscences—joys
We took for granted in our youth,
When ageing and its frailties
Were ever far from our minds.

—And now, we are old.