its hanging craggy face
potmarked with the insistence of everyday
stormed by age with nothing to stir the dust.
Also it's glint reflection
wavering in water, younger
stirred by our toes and the soft breathed breeze
born in the lack of space between
your face, my fingertips.
Two moons, too, my sagging face
furrowed and lined and deep bagged under my eyes
where the chill run rough through my legs from the cool deep lake
and reflected in your
tender pupilled ponds
I see me as always then
thinner, firmer, strong.
NB: Thanks to Hazel and Wren for running a blog with writing prompts to help me on the tough days.
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