22 Springs Later

Dear me,

At fifty,

Things may not be easy,

Nor straight,

Nor as planned.

Smoothening out wrinkled pages

Of diaries that date back

To moments in the present,

As carefully pressed

Dried roses pop out

Leaving old fragrances lingering

Your hands could tremble,

Heart might beat faster

And your moistened eyes

May lit up,

To find how

Time has kept all its promises,

And you have broken all of yours.

Only to win a race

Against time,

A race that

Allows you to read this today

22 springs later.