Nothing Like

There is nothing like growing old
to feel the tightness of the light
swaddling you like a baby, and the air
breathing in your face from the compass winds
pointing always elsewhere, and the slick
mud at your feet, in your hands, on your backside
sledding you down the backyard hill of home
in the spring thaws, coldly comforting, and the fire
that licks at the edge of the letters in your hands
from almost forgotten lovers – the smoke tartens
and bitters your nostrils with memories you would swear
were only hallucinations most of the time –
but no such luck: the fire warms the air
and dries the mud to dust that clouds the light
until the burning letters burn your hands
and you drop their frail and delicate, curling ashes
to your boots and watch they fly off like black moths.