Last night
sleep came in three small rivers—
an hour, perhaps two,
then waking,
then returning
to the dark between breaths.

Outside,
summer burned at ninety-eight,
feeling like one hundred five.

My wife said,
“Stay inside.
The heat can wait.
The weeds can wait.”

But something in the body knows
what the mind cannot explain.

So I dressed for the furnace—
boots, gloves, long sleeves—
and stepped into the living fire.

Not to prove I am young.
Not to defeat the sun.
Only to remember
that I am alive.

Every twenty minutes:
water, shade, breath.
Then rise again.

Until thought disappeared—
no yesterday,
no tomorrow,
no age,
no name.

Only earth,
tool,
breath,
heartbeat,
sun—

and sweat falling.

One drop.
Then another.
Then another.

And suddenly
the falling water taught me:

Everything falls—
rain, leaves, night,
years,
the body itself.

Yet within the falling
something rises.

Water descends.
Consciousness ascends.

My knees tremble.
My back speaks in pain.
My shirt grows heavy
with the weight of the day.

Still, somewhere within,
a small voice whispers:

Not yet.
Not yet.

Do not mistake
the weakening of the body
for the death of the spirit.

Do not make
your limits
your home.

A little less walking,
a little less reaching,
a little less wonder—

and we may begin
to practice death
before death arrives.

So I go outside.

Not to become young again,
but to remain awake.

The tree does not count its years.
The wind does not fear its seasons.
The earth does not refuse
another seed.

Rain becomes river.
River becomes sea.
Sea becomes cloud.

Nothing is lost.
Everything changes form.

Perhaps I am changing too.

I am seventy-seven.

The body knows
the downward road.

I accept its gravity.

But I will not
walk downhill
in consciousness.

Let the hair turn white.
Let the knees slow.
Let sleep come broken.

But let the heart remain awake.

Let the spirit rise—
slowly, quietly—
against gravity,
against heat,
against fear,
against the temptation to stop.

Perhaps this is old age:

not becoming less alive,
but discovering
a different youth—

a youth made of wonder,
courage,
gratitude,
and beginning again.

Tonight,
perhaps sleep will come once.
Perhaps three times.

It does not matter.

I have listened
to the falling water.

I have felt sweat
become prayer.

I have heard
my old body
speaking to the earth.

And between
the downward pull of gravity
and the upward movement
of consciousness,

I heard a voice
almost smaller than silence:

You are still here.
Rise.
Begin.

So let the water fall.
Let the years fall.
Let the body fall gently
toward the earth.

But let consciousness rise—

slowly, quietly,
like a single drop
climbing back toward the cloud.

To fall
without surrendering.

To bend
without breaking.

To rest
without giving up.

To keep flowing
against the falling water
until the last light
finds its way home.