The maladies of age are such
They rend us tender to the touch
How difficult our days become
This is not some great prize we’ve won.
Perhaps tis just we’re wearing out
Old bones begin to creak and shout
As like some aged trees we sight
We hold the dampness of the night.
The cold repelling off our skin
Is like a thief who slithers in
It seems the comfort age requires
Comes with the warmth of old hearth fires !
Claire V. Bogdanos 