Poem As I grow older, I feel younger more eager, more full of love. More alive the closer I move to death. More whole the closer I move into blight. The sweeter life grows as fervent clamors of youth pass. Passions of old age take deeper flavor, ripened, more nuanced. More easily words and affections flow when the self-conscious gaucherie of youth has passed. Wholeness suddenly is mine; ragged edges of fear hemmed. Mirrors say Look. Do not be afraid. You are what you are. -Betty Lockwood