Five can be
An awkward number,
Sharp edges and curves
All at once.
There is nothing even
And measured
With five,
One side always outnumbers the other,
One partnerless outlier.
But five is prime,
Divisible only by itself
From the inside.
Within this is power,
An ability to be cohesive
And whole that not every
Number possesses.
Five must be chosen,
Nurtured.
Choose wisely.
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.