My mirror tries to convince me that I’m old.
Yet I have a fresh face I’m told.
So these furrows in this body I behold, as
I recognize skin-deep beauty does not rebirth.
Still, I remember things way back yonder:
Sculptured summer grass,
Children ringing around roses
With Pockets filled with poses,
Barren tree leaves
Floating in the breeze...woman!
waste no time on younger years
For the past archives still.
I’ll never be older than the goddess of art.
My lover, you'll never  be older than thou art.
Let the earlier years delight in the older ones
For to understand the old-
The new must been known and told.
February 2,2008