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.
for weathering storms.
Awake and alive—
Bearing proof of wisdom,
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,
Hands bearing scars and cracks,
proof I have grasped
at paintbrushes and tree branches,
lovers and cliff faces;
braced grieving shoulders,
There trace my smile-lines,
they’ll silently testify,
of a life fully lived.