Why do they deem you old at fifty,
when laughter still ripples through your chest,
when dreams still pace the midnight hallway,
and morning sun still stirs unrest?
They count your years like fallen leaves,
but never see the roots below —
the fire that hums beneath the ashes,
the places only you still know.
Your hands have built, your eyes have learned,
your heart has worn both loss and grace.
Each line upon your skin’s a poem,
each scar, a star in time’s embrace.
So let them whisper “old” like fools —
you’ve only grown too wide for youth.
At fifty, you are not diminished,
you are distilled — the proof of truth.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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