Lines of living

I love the lines on my face

that tell me I have seen and tasted.

They betray my poorly-kept secret

of laughing too hard and too often—

creased by a grief that breaks and rebuilds.

My forehead is marked by skepticism and curiosity,

guilty of surrendering to wonder and awe— repeatedly.

I am not just an image to be observed:

some sculpture of enticing form,

fit for consumption or admiration.

No, I am some wild thing,

tumbling through life.

Reckless and graceful;

scraped knees, pointed toes.

Gleefully and sumptuously laughing forward.

I have wrestled with time—

been touched by it,

fought for it.

So may it be said I danced through the world like a fool

in love with living.

Let people remark

that I have interacted with all my days,

unafraid of being changed.

Better,

more beautiful,

for weathering storms.

Awake and alive—

Stubborn, mystified—

Bearing proof of wisdom,

wonder,

in the fabric of my form.

I will not grieve the passing of my days,

the weathering of my face.

Oh I bear the gifts of time

on my belly, my thighs,

my heart, my settled mind.

And at the end

I’ll rest my head,

limbs, hard-worked,

sun-spotted, spent.

Hands bearing scars and cracks,

heart-worn,

proof I have grasped

at paintbrushes and tree branches,

lovers and cliff faces;

braced grieving shoulders,

cradled babes.

There trace my smile-lines,

they’ll silently testify,

betraying still,

of a life fully lived.

One thought on “Lines of living

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