Shrinking

Thanks to the working of the ages,

I am now three inches shorter,

almost a wisp of my former body;

but not, I hope, smaller in my being,

or losing the lovely imaginings

of the words which assault me

each day and demand their page.

Old fingers and their pencil still move

through the loops of cursive,

a hand moving across the page,

a magic of remembered motions

turned into letters learned long ago

that make those words,

which still seem to serve me well,

to carry the weight and dimensions

of what must be said.