What Is It?

Is it age?
That that makes my legs to stop
Their usual quickened pace and glance
At the perfect blossoms spring has made
That make my solemn feet long to dance.

Is it experience?
That that makes me look
In the last sad breath of the sun
Before it with a tear sets.
It's sad enough to make my arms come undone.

Is it wisdom?
That that allows me to stand
So I can marvel at the lion sea
Forever within only five minutes
As it shakes its mane and growls at me.

Is it fear?
That that makes me quit
My lonely entertainment for the night
To only listen to an oncoming storm,
To pay respect but without fright.

What is it that makes us be--
Comparatively young as we may be--
See beauty clearer and deeper than before
As if we've finally opened a bigger door?