Mimi
- Marian Glaser
- Mar 8, 2019
- 1 min read
By Marian Glaser ©

I can’t climb trees now or
run down stairs so fast
it feels like floating.
Jump jiving is a memory,
my first try fifty years ago.
With spring life wakens,
flaunting new growth,
sure of strength,
oblivious of death’s presence.
A skull bleaching has no relevance to
sun-tan oiled bathers.
It’s surrounding by empty space,
holes without eyes,
a memento mori now,
minus the life that
leapt, ran, sang and loved.
That dead stillness mimics
my lost young exuberance.
I accept my metamorphosis,
exploring the capacities
of this new body.
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