The Poetry of Growing Old

February 2026

By Richard Fleming

Photo courtesy of Annie Spratt

Nature, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As a fond mother, when the day is o’er,
   Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
   Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
   And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
   Nor wholly reassured and comforted
   By promises of others in their stead,
   Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
   Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
   Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
   Being too full of sleep to understand
   How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

Poetry has never been a big interest of mine. I have occasionally tried reading it, yet often found myself mystified and lost. I know poems are important literary forms. But they can be so hard to understand. Poems present with a paucity of words. What is the author trying to say? And poetry often displays an unusual physical form, the lines sashaying down the page, so different from the organized format of prose – sentence, next sentence, paragraph, next paragraph, chapter, next chapter, repeat.

After recently reading some poetry I found easier to understand, an unexpected notion popped into my head. I realized aging can be viewed as poetry, in both form and content. OK, this may be a challenge, but I will try to explain.

*    *    *

Let’s start with form.

Old folks possess a different stature and carriage than younger folks. Our bodies can appear disorganized and altered, as is often true of poems. Of course we resemble the general human form of younger folks, but our body parts can be askew. Our proportions are less orderly, another common feature of poetry.

Something else. Seniors often move differently as we grow older. Where younger folks amble straightforwardly across the land, our gait becomes slower and uncertain. Our hands can tremor. Our progress, even our intentions, can be murky early on. Just as is true of poetry. But once we reach our goal, things become sorted. Both poetry and seniors move in ways that may seem initially obscure, but eventually our intentions are revealed.

What about content?

The brains of old people contain vast arrays of knowledge, nuanced and layered by years of lived experience. Our minds are treasure troves of dense emotions, decades deep. As is true of poetry, we often communicate using words, phrasing, and rhythms that are unfamiliar to younger listeners. The meaning we are trying to convey – the full scope of content behind our words – may be hard for those with less life experience to grasp. Our words can resemble poetry, even though we do not speak in rhyme.

*    *    *

In other words, both poetry and aging are complex and often difficult to fathom.

In poetry, stanza follows stanza, eventually revealing meaning, emotion, and wisdom. Growing old follows a similar path. Decade follows decade, eventually illuminating purpose, sentiment, and understanding. Appreciating the beauty and richness of poetry takes time. In the same way, seeing the beauty and richness of aging evolves over many long years.

In a prior blog post I encouraged seniors to read more fiction. I want to also recommend we read more poetry. Grappling with different forms of poetry may help shine some light on the dappled, mist-strewn road we are trying to traverse with some degree of resolve and grace.

*    *    *

It is notable that poetry encompasses a range of styles and forms. Free verse, ballads, haiku, sonnets, blank verse, odes, palindromes, and others. But all are poems.

This is also true of aging. It too encompasses a range of styles and forms. There is no single approach. For some, growing old is more complicated. For some, more abbreviated. For some, more upbeat. For some, more rhythmical. For some, more sentimental. There are so many ways to grow old. But for each of us, growing old is a form of poetry. And we are the authors of our poems.

Understanding aging as poetry can have immediate practical applications. The next time your knees ache, or you have trouble standing up from the couch, or you wonder why you walked into the dining room, tell yourself these phenomena are stanzas in your poem.

I have previously written about how seniors live our lives in analog. I now realize we also travel through time as a form of poetry. Let the young folks live their lives in prose. One day, if fortune shines on them, they will come to understand the beauty of living as poets.

I will end with an excerpt from:

Passing of the Old Year, by Mary Weston Fordham

Ah! the year is slowly dying,
And the wind in tree-top sighing,
   Chant his requiem.
Thick and fast the leaves are falling,
High in air wild birds are calling,
   Nature’s solemn hymn.

In the deep, dark forest lingers,
Imprints of his icy fingers,
   Chill, and dark, and cold.
And the little streamlets flowing,
Wintry sun so softly glowing,
   Through the maple’s gold.

So, Old Year, gird on your armor,
Let not age, nor fear, nor favor,
   Hurry you along.
List! the farewell echoes pealing,
List! the midnight hour is stealing,
   Hark! thy dying song.

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