When I get old, I will not dye my hair.

I will let it grow gray.

Though I am afraid of death,

I will turn and face it,

look it straight in the eye,

and press my hands to my arthritic hips in defiance.

I will feel the earth beneath my feet every day.

I will ski slowly, but I will strap poles to my hands

Bind my Fischers to my toes

and photosynthesize,

Absorb the sun gleaming, twinkling off the immaculate white snow

the silhouetted naked leafless trees draped with downy fluff

Beneath the most peaceful blue of blue skies.

My stiff old joints will feel loose and limber in the freshest of air

With the most smooth and graceful of strides.

When I see the young ones pass, my skin will twinge.

Is it envy?

They look so spry, their motions so effortless.

But I realize soon it is a twinge of excitement.

I go flying down the hill with them, my spirit soaring upward,

High above the bleak and the gray

High above the stiff and degenerating.

My spirit looks down at me from above

And sees I am at peace.

When I grow old, I will not hide it.

I will not dye my hair.

I will let it grow gray. 


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