The Older I Get

I once heard the whisper of falling snow, saw a spark in the eye of a coal-black crow, felt the power and awe of a swift river's flow, the older I get, the less I know. My hair was once braided in golden cornrows, by Jamaican friends in an island below, a psychic once asked me about Jericho, the older I get, the less I know. The hot southern asphalt that scalded my toe, the rope swing that swung us, to and fro, Christmas Eve and the tree in the firelight's glow, the older I get, the less I know. Everyone's gone, but where did they go? Why is my spirit sinking so low? Is it true we reap only what we sow? the older I get, the less I know. ©2010 DanielleWhite