Getting Old

I heard this poem this morning and thought the line about the foundation sure fits me right now. Something is messed up in my lower back and I'm creeping around with the help of a cane. I don't expect it to be permanent but it's making me look like an old woman. 

Getting Old

You tell me I am getting old, 

I tell you, that's not so.

The "house" I live in is worn out, 

And that, of course, I know. 

It's been in use a long, long while, 

It's weathered many a gale; 

I'm really not surprised you think, 

It's getting somewhat frail.

The color's changing on the roof, 

The window’s getting dim, 

The wall’s a bit transparent, 

And looking rather thin. 

The foundation's not so steady, 

As once it used to be; 

My "house" is getting shaky, 

But my "house" – it isn't me.

My few short years can't make me old, 

I feel I'm in my youth;

Eternity lies just ahead, 

A life of joy and truth. 

You only see the outside, 

Which is all that most folks see.

You tell me that I am getting old? 

You've mixed my "house" with me!

by Dora Johnson