I have grown old.
Clamorous shouts grow louder
("Just look how sincere I am!")
but hail from growing distances.
I'll claim to have grown too weak 
to wrestle down accelerating years
watch them fly out of sight 
all their luggage with them.
I have grown accustomed to dim lamps.
Fire of the mind parcelled out
to see clearly.
My dalliance with ephemera
grows smaller in proportion
to a newborn reach into surrounding good.
A most pleasant surprise, it dawns on me
only now, common to all.