just under the surface of the skin.
Near the eye a splinter of frightened flesh
loses hold on the plumpness
we call youth.
If we walk briskly into the quietude
of our true age, perhaps we will be christened
with purpose and hope for a bright face
and a smile that shows the luxury of joy
in the abundance of lines that have been worn
like weathered stone broken apart
by the loving forces
of rain, wind, and the shaking of seasons
all the way to oblivion
and the hand of God
upon your shoulder
telling you it is time
to come home.
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