Bright Shiny Days Like This


You see me turn in front of the long mirror,
adjust my skirt, frown at the reflection, and sigh.
Knowing I never take compliments for honest truth, 
you offer anyway.  You tell me I am beautiful.

Before I can stop my brain from reaching my mouth,
it spills:  I am fifty-six and not getting younger, I retort.
I want to take it back, say thank you, tell you
I think you are beautiful too.     Always.

You come to hold my chin firmly in your hand
and inspect my upturned face for wordless clues.
You are the woman I am in love with.    Always.  
I feel that.  I do know that.  I see it in your eyes.

I am not afraid of wrinkles, or softness in places
that have forgotten to spring back when pressed.
Those things mean nothing in the whole reflection.
The real worry is that I am desperately in love.

I am in love with wind when it caresses tall grass,
with dance of sunlight through orange and green leaves,
with sparkle of water over smooth stones and moss;
I am in love with Life, and all the little wrinkles it gifts me.

I am in love with the echo of me in a granddaughter’s smile,
with the welcome awake hug of my son on new mornings,
with the rise and fall of your chest while you are sleeping;
I am in love with Life, and all the soft places it gifts me.

I count the days; save them like bright shiny pennies in a jar.
I want to invest my time wisely, and see interest accumulate
in the form of days like this, when I catch your glance in a mirror,
and see my reflection slide back to  beautiful in your eyes.


Shirley Alexander
© 2009
 

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