I lay awake here with my pen,
looking for words that say what
I feel in this apprehension.

I chased my grandchildren around
my yard, and they were in my garden,
laughing, squealing, with a joy not
yet tempered by the changing world,
and breathless I drank their smiles
as an elixir of life to keep me from
dying all too soon from recognition.

And with pen in hand, as if ancient
gods directed me, I write this poem
about a future that I cannot command
from dust, a time when my grandchildren
will own this horizon I barely see,
where I pray they too will play chase
in back gardens and squeal with joy
and bring their pens to write a vision
for a world not yet tainted just like me.

 

27/3/2026