Fifty catches you
off-guard,
like a bright morning
after a deep sleep.
Like a purse-snatcher,
it sneaks up
silently
but with purpose.

Fifty raises questions,
causes you to life look,
makes you wish you were
the sun
or
a tree.

You rationalize.
Sunsets can be long,
dazzling,
memorable.
Old trees continue
to bear fruit
and weight.
Their age and size
makes them stronger,
more rooted.

Someone writes that
50 is the new 30,
and you decide to believe it
until you decide it
means nothing.

Then suddenly
you realize you cannot
fight it.
It’s going to happen
anyway.
You come to accept it
and to embrace it,
to forgive yourself
for questioning.

You decide to
act your age,
hoping all the while
you might
look younger.

You begin to focus less on
what you’ve done
and more on what you haven’t
but still intend to do.

The sun rises again.
You notice it now,
every time,
and feel more grateful.