Grit
Yesterday…
I felt old
Like that old cottonwood
that creaks in the wind
with a few withered limbs
I never thought of myself
as old,... even though my face shows age
a little more each year
adding another ring to the trunk
Aged character like the gnarly grain
of finely polished oak
drawn out by the perfect shade of honey stain
Perhaps I'm just feeling
the stains of life upon my veneer
that has finally caught up
A weariness in the mirror
just below the eyes
like a gray-purple bruising
The bruising of life
that rest doesn't seem to cure any more
Poem 22-325.1 © Now, Brian
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