May 25, 2011
Bob Dylan, as of yesterday
Has reached the age of seventy.
This bard of youth, this angel
Of that long past, open time is now
Among the old he once defied. It's certified.
I wonder is he's wizened now and dark in thought?
Friends who see him say he's singing still.
Age and all, he's just himself.
He does what he must do--and he does it well.
Today the moon is quarter full
And at this hour the Pisces star
Old Fomalhaut, the bright one, shines above it
To the south. But I don't see it.
Cloudy skies obscure my view.
Heavy air, a sense of pause.
There's no specific cause.
Some days one's light's obscured by inner cloud.
As if what wants to speak can have no room
No time to safely say it all out loud.
And anyway, it's now too late.
The light is up. The sky is grey.
And in parade the day's demands, to stand
With pitchforks, twitching tails and all.
They call me by my name.
And so I go to what I too must do. And, praise the bard,
I'll do it well.