sex at sixty by Charles Carr

sex at sixty

So many bluebirds,
it must be the sky
trying to clear its head,
daffodils stand at attention,
a bugle corps of color
but the only sound is
a march wind pushing
against trees
like the creak of an old door
when it opens;
spring sneaks in on several
of its sixty-eight degrees,
both of us are in agreement,
it’s more like rolling downhill
than the jumping off cliffs
of our youth
and the best part of all
is the time we take
to climb back to the top
of an hour past noon,
how the light
at the window glows
liked the embarrassed face
of entering a room
without knocking.

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: The gorgeous imagery in this poem creates a perfect window into real life (and love).