His wrinkles
are but a map
that etch deeply the
journey's he's taken,
folded in places almost
accordion style,
but his eyes
always tell
you where
he's at.
His face
marks out
a path I
too will take,
as I hitchike
on his coat-tails
towards oblivion.
Already my smile
lines become
mile lines,
leading back
to happiness
once visited.
And the faint
track of
crow's feet,
reveal their future
nesting places
near my temples.
We have to
get old,
to make room
for the young,
and we wear
this sacrifice,
spelled out on
the parchment
of our well
traveled faces,
with dignity and grace,
so that our
children will know
where they are bound,
and not get
lost along the way.
Old is our
last resort,
and it can be
quite lovely,
when one simply
settles in
and accepts
its quiet pastures.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis
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