A Word with You

Once you’re gone long enough
You can be young again.
You can be any age

You ever were or words
You arranged ever were,
And that’s the age they’ll be

To someone reading them,
And not the least bit strange,
The way it would be now,

Elderly as you are,
To encounter your words
Composed when you were young.

For now, what you’ve written
Is still yours, still belongs
To you, to who you are,

And who you are is old,
And young words are old clothes,
The gown, the uniform

That hang strangely on you,
If they fit you at all.
For now, since they’re still yours,

They don’t seem made for you,
Your younger lines—since they’re
Yours, they’re not yours at all.

Once you’re long gone, you’ll be
Another word, at most,
And you’ll fit into them.