Then let me measure my life
not in days, not in years,
but in how many sunflowers
grew in my gardens
and how many times
I stopped to notice
how beautiful they were.
Let me measure my life
in lines of poems
that slipped me
more deeply into the world
and in cups of earl gray tea.
Let me grow old
on belly laughs.
Let me know my true age
in kisses. And though
it is a finite number,
let me lose count.
In hug years,
let me be ancient.
In fist years,
let me always be young.
And let me measure my life
in songs that insisted I sing them.
May it equal the number of times
they were sung.
Ah, I love this. I read it in conversation with Mary Oliver’s “When Death Comes…”
I’m thinking about how I’d measure my life in this vein. Times I smiled instead of swearing. Minutes I forgot because I was making art. Conversations where I really listened to another.
As you know, the poem came in part out of our discussion of that poem! And the invitation to be the bride married to amazement! … I love especially the “minutes I forgot because I was making art.” Wonderful.
just meant for me!!! thanks!!
Just for you! So glad!!
I’m reading this on my 59th birthday and it’s perfect. Thank you
Oh thank you so much, Barb! Happy birthday to you!