My poems are getting old

My poems are getting old
Full of yellowed moments
With torn edges
Where I have sought to hold
Or edit.
Full of traced paths back
Down the slope, away
From this glade
With its liminal thickets
Its trickling brook.
Full of thoughts and comparisons
To books and lessons
Massaging regrets into
Existential letters
Addressed to the weather
In the absence of lovers
My poems are getting old.