There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.
Where music thundered let the mind be still, Where the will triumphed let there be no will, What light revealed, now let the dark fulfill.
Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.
Light is snow sifted / To an abstraction.
It feels a long way up and down from zero.
The trouble is, old age is not interesting until one gets there. It's a foreign country with an unknown language to the young and even to the middle-aged.