(Photo of entrance to Cowpens Revolutionary War Battlefield by Shirley Alexander)
Bright Shiny Days Like This
You see me turn in front of the long mirror,
adjust my skirt, frown at the reflection, and sigh.
Knowing I never take compliments for honest truth,
you offer anyway. You tell me I am beautiful.
Before I can stop my brain from reaching my mouth,
it spills: I am fifty-six and not getting younger, I retort.
I want to take it back, say thank you, tell you
I think you are beautiful too. Always.
You come to hold my chin firmly in your hand
and inspect my upturned face for wordless clues.
You are the woman I love. Always.
I feel that. I do know that. I see it in your eyes.
I am not afraid of wrinkles, or softness in places
that have forgotten to spring back when pressed.
Those things mean nothing in the whole reflection.
The real worry is that I am desperately in love.
I am in love with wind when it caresses tall grass,
with dance of sunlight through orange and green leaves,
with sparkle of water over smooth stones and moss;
I am in love with Life, and all the little wrinkles it gifts me.
I am in love with the echo of me in a granddaughter’s smile,
with the welcome awake hug of my son on new mornings,
with the rise and fall of your chest while you are sleeping;
I am in love with Life, and all the soft places it gifts me.
I count days; save them like bright shiny pennies in a jar.
I want to invest my time wisely, and see interest accumulate
in the form of days like this, when I catch your glance in a mirror,
and see my reflection slide back to beautiful in your eyes.
Shirley Alexander
3 comments:
I thought if I was following someone I would get a notification when you posted. Oh well, I'm here now.
Love this "settlin' up with yourself" kind of poem. The part where the narrator is speaking eloquently of places which don't spring back when pressed. Ah, this growing old is interesting. I remember two times very vivid in my thoughts of growing old. The first time was when a young teenager said "Sir" to me when in my thoughts I was still his age. The other crisis was when I noticed for the first time I had developed a . . . er . . . wattle.
The last two verses though are the ones I like the most. Excellent description about what is important.
Thank you, Jerry.
I worry the most about arms. I've always liked my arms, and I have to lift weights and use a sand bag now to keep them in shape. Yard work used to be enough. Everybody else complains about belly fat and their middles. I don't have much trouble with that, and I think it has something to do with posture. I've always thought that. With me, the worry is mostly upper arms. A 'wattle' there would freak me out. I am almost paranoid about it.
Just found this from six days ago. Sorry I hadn't answered, but the message wasn't there until this morning. In fact about four messages were waiting form me.
Wattle. I've got one finally under my chin. I guess at seventy-one I deserve one. Haha
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