Back to Dying as Living Again

Many times, in local settings
Of mostly elderly people
(Now more and more common to find),

You catch yourself glancing around
Considering the various
Stages of dying on display—

The minor (thin, white hair, soft guts)—
The on-the-way (limps and walkers)—
The circling-the-drain while trembling.

A lot of living being done
Through the processes of decay.
You consider a world begun

For everyone at middle age,
No infancy, youth, or childhood,
No growing, no reproductive prime—

A planet with one odd species
That steps out, maybe from seed cones,
Already salt-and-pepper haired.

How would everyone’s stages feel
On such a compressed timetable?
Likely much the same, the same.