What remains – I hardly think of my age
I think of it as an imprudent sage
Old time friends still stay in touch
Distance affects us very much
Times new and old we share
Birthdays remembered show we care
Age is only a word.
***
W3 Prompt #164: Wea’ve Written Weekly
The Bag Lady 
hi, Cheryl 🥰
Just wanna let you know that this week’s W3, hosted by our beloved Murisopsis (Val), is now live:
https://skepticskaddish.com/2025/07/02/w3-prompt-166-weave-written-weekly/
Enjoy!
Much love,
David
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hi, Cheryl 😍
Just wanna let you know that this week’s W3, hosted by the amazing Bob Lynn, is now live:
https://skepticskaddish.com/2025/06/25/w3-prompt-165-weave-written-weekly/
Enjoy❣️
Much love,
David
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Thank you!
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🤗
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Well said. Age is only a number.
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Until you are the last one standing- and then it becomes a different word all together.
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Age is just a silly number! I, too, am taken with your line:
“I think of it as an imprudent sage”
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A tender poem Cheryl 💕
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Thank you for reading and commenting
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Beautiful
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Thank you, Sadje
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You’re very welcome ☺️
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Cheryl, your line “I think of it as an imprudent sage” caught me off guard in the best way—it feels like a playful paradox that frames aging with such character.
I really enjoyed how lightly this poem holds time and memory!
~David
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Thank you very much, David
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🤗
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For sure! The older you think yourself to be, the more you age!
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Agree!
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Lovely
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