This is me, at 46;
Youth still visible in the rear-view mirror,
The wisdom of time seeping warmly
Into the crevices of my face.
See my eyes?
They have seen a thousand tiny miracles,
Witnessed sorrow beyond comprehension,
Filled with rivers of laughter and grief.
I have struggled with this face,
Loved with it,
Screamed into the cold wind and cursed every god with it.
But today I am grateful,
To be stuck in traffic,
In the snow,
Feeling the tug of the earth
Gentle as a lover’s touch;
The whistling wind calling me home.
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