Through the Looking Glass

Lost my looks
some time ago, at least
that’s how it feels,
despite appeals of protest
from the man in my life.

Gone more grey, recently
from the strife of just being alive.

Sure, I scrub up well,
and maybe only I can tell
my hair is thinning
and a thickness is winning
at the middle.

I’m not exactly an old biddy yet,
but there’s no surprise in eyes anymore
when I reveal my age.

I look in the bathroom mirror
and wonder when it happened?
There must have been a solitary day
where I crossed that line
between youth and … anyway,

don’t know where I’m going with this,
and then I think,
nobody’s waiting for it—there’s no deadline,
all these changes will still be here
to write about tomorrow …
unless I’m not.

*wink, wink

Kathleen Mortensen © 2017

Time On My Hands IV

I wake and stretch;
fingers resist, insisting
on their preferred curl—
unfurling
reluctantly along with
tired limbs.

There’s black dirt
trapped beneath short nails—
residue from mulch
hand-spread on parched ground.

We are both drying up,
the earth and I.

This organ, this skin
is burnished by the sun,
all-weathering.

Its network of fine lines
weaves organic leather
preserving the underneath.

These hands,
God willing,
may serve—’til my death.

Kathleen Mortensen @2016

 

Please visit the below links to read the first three poems in this series.  Thank you.

Time On My Hands III

Time On My Hands II

Time On My Hands I