My almost grown grandsons
see only a stooped withered
old man when they look at me,
no clue of the young man I used
to be. Or where I have been, the
things I've done. They've only
known me like this. Even 20
years ago, when they were born
I was already a senior citizen.

In my mirror I also see what they
see and can barely recall that
once upon a time younger me.

Time and the elements move
on leaving erosion behind upon
mountains and people too.

melancholia loses its voice after

the unbroken rasp of its whispers--

are stripped naked by the oppressive

vapors it possessed to temper.

lordly & nonemergent--walked thru

the walls of its mansion, into rooms

that bear the sound of drizzle.

hallways of bounding sunlight, stunted

by dense clouds.

this outward ****** that visits

us--after cold buckles when its

interminable rites have been read.

this visitor--right from the heart,

going right for the heart...throws us

into that central fire.

April is concomitant with the abrupt

feel of flame, all dormancy goes up.

In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.