The Slow Recession

The world turns gray, its vibrant colors gone,
Its proud cacophonies to whispers stilled.
The savor once so keen cannot hold on,
And fragrances that stirred the heart have spilled.

The warmth of living skin arrives more slow,
And textures once alive lie cool on hand.
What burned with presence not so long ago
Now asks of me a gentler way to stand.

Yet memory, though pale, returns to glow—
Not vivid now, but steady, like a coal
That long past flaming still holds heat below,
And warms the reaching fingers of the soul.

For sense may dim while seeing deepens still,
And what the body loses, mind may hold.
The slow recession works its quiet will:
Not poorer grown, but tempered and consoled.