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The Age of Silk

The 100 watt light on the bedside table
Shows me the truth in the fabric of my skin.

My hands.
I  look at my hands
and  I can see the crepe paper texture
of my skin
when I hold them
just so
in the glow.
And I remember my grandmother’s hands.

When did I get
my grandmother’s hands?

Age tells its tattles in little ways these days.
Most days,
I forget,
and think that I am 20,
just as I have always been.

But then I find the years
standing snickering at me behind a post in Market Street Station
as a young man asks what year I graduated
and I have to tell him that
it was
before he was born.

It is only in the nights,
the nights now when I am alone –

no shoulder for my head,
no lips to tell me in love that I look
20 –

the nights when sleep is elusive,

that I see the crushed silk of my own skin
unmasked by the eyes of time.

Photo title: Neptune’s Sunrise

Anegada, British Virgin Islands.

Quote of the day: “Intense love does not measure, it just gives.”  —  Mother Teresa

Daily gratitudes:
The smell of juniper bushes
Pedicab drivers racing each other down a Denver street (with terrified passengers)
Thunder and lightning
The Madison Blanket
A new project at work


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