Growing up and growing old

Pensive, I brood the past day,

A number, that’s all, I try to say,

While decrepit, I am not,

With signs of it, I am wrought.

 

Credibly, I may still pass off,

As young, without anyone’s scoff,

But, the day isn’t far,

With wrinkles, I maybe marred.

 

I wear my grays in pride,

After all, that was to betide,

Wisdom, I await upon me,

Ripe and mellow, soon to be.