On Growing Old

A time will come to sit
in the shadow of these trees,

shawls on our laps, too old
even to remember our names.

So let's try this. Let's write
"Holy, Holy, Holy, Holy"

on old scraps of paper and fold
them tightly into tiny pills.

For whatever Light awaits us
on the other side, surely

it can't hurt to have some
praises already on our tongues.

From Kiss the Earth When You Pray: The Father Zosima Poems (Apocryphile Press). Copyright 2016 by Robert Hudson. Used by permission.