About A Wrinkle

By the sides of my mouth where there used to be,

Nothing, but smooth skin to feel and see,

I have discovered a squatter has taken up residence,

A crease, a line, deep growing evidence,

Of what, I am not sure, it’s something profound,

That has crept up on me without any sound,

I dig and explore under the sagging,

With a feeling of disquiet, familiar and nagging,

And I find a bag, which held sleep I had lost,

Nights up with children, this was the cost,

And tucked away was a glistening tear,

Cried for all that I held precious and dear,

And as I proceeded I found a giggle,

Lost to my childhood with an infectious wiggle,

I nearly missed a cupboard of smiles,

Which had accompanied me along life’s many miles,

I got trapped by a high wall of worry,

From all those what ifs and would I be sorry,

And as I climbed back up I understood what,

The wrinkle was and what it was not,

It was time, a documented history of I,

A sign of all that had passed me by,

And so I welcome more squatters that mark,

Living, which is beautiful, ugly, light and dark.

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