The Art of Aging

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The Art of Aging

Holds mystery in the folds
Unfurls surprises from the hidden
Places of memories from
Girlhood, childhood and inbetween
Details
From long ago move from sepia toned
Images
Imagine a reframing of a life
Displayed in all its glory
Revealing what it stored up
Rooted in deep
Living
Someplace near a haloed edge
We teeter on the brink
And sense a gilding
Brush stroked over moments, laced
With pain and grief
Goodness gathers up the tattered
Faded
Dark age spots
Replaced now
A birth occurs within
Her
Life unfolding, wait
In case of emergency you may break
The glass
It is time
Emerges
Rotates on the very  edges of
A new and different dawn
Age will take her rightful place
A crown
Up on her head
Jewels for every moment
She waited years for her new birth

Joy,
In the end
The art of aging, a masterpiece
No science can explain.

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Serpentine Grace

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Before the sleepy’s rubbed and wiped away
At the start of  day in early May, leaves kick their feet
do a manic jig
Fast as the boys jitter bugging
when they returned from war

They tell through dance,
communicate the language of the trees
Leaves look like fingers too, another way
through the panes with sleepy eyes
I am deaf, they are signing
mysteries only trees can know

That with the winds comes a shakedown
It is the way of howling air, blustering power
and might, a change
Words that say what oaks, they know
the bending delivers strength
The branches carry messages for me

braille, for me, the blind one
The one who can not see
Planted in the eye of  storm, in the raging winds

That the dusty blows away
Hitches a ride on the tailwinds in the sky

Before the plans are made and prayers are eeked
And worry settles in the folds
At the outset of  new day

Grace is carried, dropped and settles
On the house, in which I live
And all that’s left for me
The one who simply cannot see

Is wind-blown trust
from the Grace Giver
Golden leaves now dance instead
Gentle musings out my window,

Wind and trees a joyful mix, whispering words

To walk the way that winds, not straight
It’s serpentine
though paved with grace.

Joining Sandra Heska King for Still Saturdays

and Emily for Imperfect Prose
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