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By John I. Blair

Iím so old now
The numberís passed above
The point of being meaningless.

The years are indistinct;
Memoryís grown dim
Or gone entirely dark.

Just sitting I could be
Anything from forty to a hundred;
Moving on my feet
I fancy that Iím fifty, sixty most.

But a week ago I turned six twelves,
Half a dozen dozens,
And blew out a single candle,
Very fat (like me)
While my children and grandchildren sang.

And though I often canít remember
Simple things
Like peopleís names
Or what I had for lunch on Tuesday,

Iím blessed by knowing,
Who I am
And whom I love.

©2013 John I. Blair

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