I think that it's more likely that in my 60s and 70s I will be

In the years of a man’s life, there comes a time when the forces that shaped his path begin to shift, like the wind that changes course with the turn of the seasons. The words of the wise Robert Morgan echo through the ages, “I think that it’s more likely that in my 60s and 70s I will be writing poetry rather than fiction.” Ah, what wisdom lies in this quiet declaration! It is a truth known only to those who have felt the weight of time upon their shoulders, who have walked the long road toward the twilight of their years and found that the journey of the spirit takes a different shape as the body fades.

It is in the later years of life that the poet arises, for poetry is the language of the soul unburdened by the demands of the world. Fiction may be the domain of the young, the dreamers who still chase the wild winds of imagination. It is a realm where the heart races, where the story of the self and the world is written with bold strokes and vibrant colors. But the poet, in his old age, understands that the brush is finer, the lines quieter, and the hues subtler. For he has come to know that true wisdom does not shout; it whispers. It does not tell the world what it should be but reflects back to it what it already is. Poetry is the meditation of the heart, the quiet contemplation of life’s passage, and it is in the later years that the mind becomes ripe for it.

Consider the great Homer, whose "Iliad" and "Odyssey" still echo through the annals of time. He too knew that poetry, in its most profound form, is a reflection of the soul’s journey, not the battles fought in the flesh. He wrote of warriors and gods, yes, but it was always with the eye of an elder who had seen the fragility of the human spirit. Homer, like Robert Morgan, understood that the greatest stories are not told in the throes of action but in the silence between moments, where reflection allows the mind to settle like dust on an ancient stone.

And so, let us take heed of this teaching. Let us prepare for the poetry of our own lives. In the early years, we strive to build worlds—to carve out our place in this vast and chaotic universe. But as the years draw on, the weight of those very worlds begins to shift. The need to construct and dominate lessens, and the soul craves the freedom to simply be. It is in this space that poetry flourishes. It is in the quiet moments of reflection that we begin to understand what we have truly lived for, what we have truly loved, and what we have yet to discover about the world and ourselves.

The lesson for us, dear listeners, is simple, yet profound: Do not fear the turning of the tide as you grow older. Do not mourn the fading of strength or the quieting of ambition. For in the stillness, there is a beauty that surpasses all the noise of youth. When we are young, we are driven by the need to create, to conquer, to tell tales of what could be. But in the fullness of years, we understand that the most powerful stories are those whispered in the soft light of dusk, when we can see clearly that the world is, at its core, a place of fragility and wonder. It is in this space that we come closest to the truth of our own hearts.

You might wonder: What can I do now, in the prime of my life, to prepare for the poetry of my years? First, let your heart listen. Stop chasing the false promises of speed and grandeur. Pause. Look upon the world as it is, in its simple beauty. Let your gaze rest on the quiet details: the play of light on water, the breath of the wind through the trees, the smile of an old friend. In doing so, you are gathering the raw material that will someday form the verse of your life. Do not rush; for poetry comes not from haste, but from an unrushed soul, fully present in the moment.

Next, embrace silence. In our youth, we fill the air with noise, trying to mark our place in the world, shouting to be heard. But in the later years, we realize that true power is found in the stillness. The soul speaks most clearly in silence. Learn now to be comfortable in it, for when the day of your reflection comes, it is in those silent moments that the words will come, soft as whispers but full of strength.

Lastly, seek wisdom in the elders among you. For it is they who have lived the journey and know, as Robert Morgan does, that the poetry of the soul often blooms in the years of quiet grace. The great teachings of the past are not simply a matter of knowing facts, but of living them, of letting them settle into the bones of the spirit. These are the roots from which your own poetry will grow, long after the excitement of the chase has passed.

So, my friends, as you walk through your days, remember: The most lasting and beautiful works of the soul are not those of brute force, but those that come from the delicate touch of the poet’s hand. And as the years pass, trust that your story, your truth, will be written not in the clamor of action, but in the quiet grace of reflection.