I see your wrinkles but can’t see my own,
Your hair growing gray and thin and brittle.
I see me as young; I see you as grown,
As if you were big and I was little.
I title you “sir”. I preface you “m’am”.
I keep thinking you must know more than I.
Quite deferential; that’s just who I am.
But I’m older too and wondering why
I put you in charge and I bowed to you.
Because you are bolder, just a bit older,
I crowded you, must have seemed loud to you,
Presumptive to think that you could shoulder
The weight of my world, a dog to my pup,
My reason to follow and not grow up.
Rev. Joel Tucker's Blog 