some mornings, when i stand
in the bathroom washing
the night’s sleep away,
i make faces at myself
in the mirror, squinching
my eyes to see how my
crow’s feet are coming in.
to my surprise, they barely
leave a trace.
this evening, i saw a snapshot
of a face younger than mine,
eyes looking past the camera
and crinkled with laughter,
ebullient furrows creasing cheeks.
fifty years from now, i wonder,
what will be the harvest of this tiny
taste of grace?
Leave a Reply