Stillness

When I am old, old, old as old as

an oak glowing enormous and gold

at a dappling day's end; when

my face is as wrinkled as

the face of a pond in the wind; when

remembering is my work and

a nap is my recreation, then

I will be still enough to pray, to

hold sunlight in my hand and

wait for love

the way love has of old

waited for me.

T. Baker