“When a hedonist gets old”

The days once draped in velvet night,  
Where laughter sparkled, sharp and bright,  
Now lengthen wide as golden wheat  
And slow the drumbeat of my feet.  

I’ve danced on tables, chased down thrills,  
Let vintage wine erase my ills;  
Each midnight’s dare, each siren tune—  
The world was mine in silver June.  

But seasons wheel; my mirrors tell  
That time, that rascal, rings the bell.  
My temples frost, my passions wane—  
A gentler hunger now remains.  

I savor morning’s honeyed sun,  
The buttered toast, the porch begun  
With memory’s ceremonial sip:  
No need for speed, nor taste to tip.  

Across the garden, roses climb—  
Their blooming scent more sweet with time.  
I watch the wrens, their gentle feud,  
And find a feast in solitude.  

The glories sought on crowded floors  
Have softened, grown to heart’s encore.  
The greatest pleasure, I have found,  
Is here: a quiet, hallowed sound—  

The breath of life, the peace of day,  
Rich with the joy that will not stray.  
For hedonists who age with grace  
Find pleasure in a slower pace.

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