Hour 20, I Grow Old

In my youth, there was sometimes beauty,
a grace of form unmarred by lines,
skin tight to the flesh and muscle well defined,
hair curling and furled down to a waist
a mere eighteen inches, spanned easily
by the hands of the man who became my love.

I grow old… I grow old…

In the years in between youth and age
there is the transitioning time, a form blurred
by swelling ankles, a thickened waist,
and sagging breasts, time’s no longer subtle
cruelties carving lines through my face and hands,
admired differently, desired differently.

I grow old… I grow old…

In extreme age there is another kind of beauty,
transcending the tightness of flesh
and instead defined by wisdom’s light,
glowing from within, a lamp beneath a silk thin scarf,
a lap and arms curved to shelter grandchildren
and a waist for their arms to embrace.

Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot




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