The Old Sheep remind me,

of things I need to know, to remember.

That in the end, love is all there is,

and ever was.

And to accept death as life itself,

one end making the other possible,

one defining the other, both miracles,

love at the start, love at the end,

bookends of the soul.

They remind me to keep my dignity

in my heart,

and soul, where it cannot be replaced

or removed, or dulled with pills,

and lured by tests.

When the world would dismiss me,

and make light of me,

and treat me like a child,

when I no longer have years to buy things

I never needed,

and to pity me,

with diapers, and discounts,

and friendly chats,

and insult me, with pills and tests

and parts that would keep me alive

for a life empty of meaning and worth,

so others can grow fat off my empty life.

The old sheep remind me. They are so much

wiser than us.

There is

another way, a way of meaning, connection,

pride. And community.

Life accepted, not denied.

And love, to the end.

Love to the end.