Greenfields
I have my very first
sort of wrinkle
2020
Is the year for that too
I should be sad
I should feel old
I should invest
In “fixing” myself
But I hate needles
More than
Looking my age
Authenticity
A seemingly
Forgotten
Aphrodisiac
Plus
Changing my face
Feels like giving power
To fear
It feels like
Agreeing
With some seemingly sunny
Yet sinister
Idea
That says
Youth
Is more valuable
More desirable
Some fruitless pursuit
Of a me
That’s gone
At the expense
Of the me
That is
Not a fair trade
For a woman
Who has done more
Than bear three beauties
To term
She
Has done more
Than make their milk
She
Has pretty consistently
Chosen courage
To keep climbing
To abandon despair
For Wild Hope
I’m proud of her
Not excluding
The face
That wears
That weather
While the world
Spins mercilessly
Madly
While we sacrifice
Seemingly all
To fear
To fabrication
To FaceBook
Wrinkles may become
A thing of the ancient past
Like eight tracks
Houses with out TVs
Lives
Without windows
The time may soon arrive
Perhaps
It is here already
When humans
No longer need
Experience
Faces
Or forty somethings
When the slow
Deadly scroll
Will suffice
Will teach
All we care to know
When huddled automatons
Will brook no variables
Wrinkles
Wisdom
Or waiting
Maybe
I’m an asshole
It’s likely
But I refuse
To model for my daughters
Anything less
Than dangerous dissent
To anything
Or anyone
That would hollow out
Their internal fire
That would demand
Homogenous
Salutation
That would tell them
They are anything less
Than formidable
Unique and magnificent
Suddenly
This most important crease
Seems of infinite importance
Seems to be more
Than a mark
Of age
Instead
It’s beauty
As it sits
To one side
Of my smile
Softly etching
Deeper
Every time
I don’t get a nap
Reminding me
Of my Mother
My mayhem
The privilege
Of years
The rarity
Of my blessed family
Consistent
Laughter
Smiles
The wry
Wistful rebellion
Of my very own face