Not long ago change moved at the speed of hair growing,     
sneaking up on you one strand at a time, and just now
folding laundry, singing to yourself, you noticed
 
the high notes have gone. What else is missing?
Remember when you could touch your toes,
could balance on one leg with your eyes closed,
 
then gradually your hips and knees turned against you?
So did the calendar. You have been reduced to living in the middle
of the week—blank days that no one celebrates.
 
On slow afternoons, you take longer naps,
and most nights to fall asleep you need the patience
of a rock that slowly works itself into the ground.
 
There must have been a pivotal day when the past
began to weigh more than the present, those years, like jars
filled to the top. Too much to remember.
 
And no letup. You’re mending, sewing on buttons, but the gray
thread you need is nearing the end of the spool.
Which of you will run out first?