I write bad poetry. Sometimes, one approaches adequate, but mostly they're doggerel. And, some of the poetry I like to read isn't the most lofty, or esoteric. But it will always be something that touches my heart. I've had a book with this little poem for about 40 years, and it came to mind this week, especially when I look in the mirror.
I shall be older than this one day.
I shall think myself young when I remember.
Nothing can stop the slow change of masks my face must wear, one following one.
These gloves my hands have put on, the pleated skin, patterned by the pale tracings of my days…
These are not MY hands! And yet, these gloves do not come off!
I shall wear older ones tomorrow, til glove after glove, and mask after mask, I am buried beneath the baggage of Old Women.
Oh, then shall I drop them off,
Unbutton the sagging, misshapen apparel of age, and run, young and naked into eternity.
~ Joan Walsh Anglund
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