It was inevitable. Time added to gravity exponentially slid skin and muscle perpetually downward, piling up at knees, wagging under arms. Fearing refugee status, pounds jumped and clung to waist lines and muffin tops, hanging over pants. It wasn’t the clothes. They acted appropriately. It was the flesh that became delinquent and ornery. Criminal. Such is aging at its surface. Not so down deep. There we age with grace, wiser and more eloquent. Beautiful and full. Grateful for the breadth and breath of each day.
Categories: Poetry