She mentions her being
Middle aged
As if it is a rite of passage
Maybe surprised
She has survived,
Or maybe it means
Something different
To her than to me,
For whom middle age
Is the past not the present,
And something I
Look back on
With nostalgia,
Even if I’d be hesitant to return
This life we live
Coming at us
In packages of time
When we see ourselves
As too old or too young
Yet never when the porridge
Is just right,
Until e look back
At what we missed
And regret at having
No recognized what
It was until it is no longer,
By which time
It is too late to fix it,
As we might have
Had we realized it
At the time,
Too young even in
Middle age to realize
What we are missing
porridge too hot
Or too cool
Made perfect
By time’s passing
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