Last Poem of My Sixth Decade

These few lines
comprise
my final poem
of six decades--
these years and months
of plenty and drought--
a plump pillow
composed
before sleep's
fat restful magic
transforms these 59 years
onwards, upwards,
over the hillwards....

I'll go to bed quite soon,
awaken in the same
square room,
yet will know in
these old/young bones,
I'm sixty exuberant
years' old this day,
singing this semi-bright eyed
fresh tune,
woven from
shadows,
fragrant pears,
and notes curving
towards greater silence
on silver morning's
thrice enchanted
floating loom.

Fog bound,
tongue tied
or clear headed,
I'm still me.
A man often
in flux,
non addicted
to spending
big bucks,
I'm mostly true
as can be
to myself,
a smiling weaver
of surprise,
solace and sorrows,
thus, I'm free!