The Old Crow

He sits on the lowest branch of a tree,

cawing good morning,

my knees creak as I rise from the rocker,

the oak door creaks as I pull it open,

letting in a swath of sun.

This is our routine,

the old crow and I;

he blind in his left eye,

me blind in my right.

We nod at each other,

granting each other a grace

deserving of our collective years.

Shades of Age

The mirror is kind to me this morning,

light slightly muted from a burnt-out bulb;

I like the way soft shadows curve

my cheekbones, soften the creases

around my eyes, across my forehead.

Perhaps I shall carry these contours

beyond the bathroom,

shall hold my head high 

in the natural light

of a mid-morning sun

and greet each passerby

as though I am thirty,

my seductive smile

and unblemished skin

a reflection of youth

stolen from a mirror.

The Unapology

roses are never

quite enough;

they shrivel

atop cut stems,

dried petals

falling like tears

down a face

too bruised

to see beauty