Growing old is a treasure
everyone believes themselves to have.
They carry it around,
and sometimes put it in a drawer,
taking for granted that it will be there
later, always later.
I thought my treasure was a certainty,
reliable,
like a bank account with a billion dollar balance.
But my treasure seems to be buried
or maybe it’s at the end of a rainbow
that I can only search for while dodging land mines
and bullets along the way.
I fear my body will give way
before I find my pot of gold.
But maybe dying young, beautiful, and loved
is a treasure of its own?