Mine

At the end, the road grows steeper,
an uphill climb
at the time when my legs have grown weaker.

Still, mostly it’s mind
that fails
and is what most I regret.

I forget requests
and things I promised to do,
write the wrong address,
get dressed when I should be
undressing.

A man bereft of desire is a man no more.

Now as autumn comes with its chilly wind
and its wine,
there is little of what I once had
except time
and it’s fast diminishing.

But what time is left is mine: my hill, my muscle,
my climb.
What I am now, most of all,
is mine.

Too much I have belonged to others.