It’s almost gone:
Time.
I must print poems for inspiration
before the website goes down.
The early morning sun filters
through windows, warms my back.
The printer prints.
I smear even complexion mask
over my aging face.
Where did my beautiful skin go?
Can I fix it?
Arid climate, too much suntime, what?
Must I admit to aging?
Must I see grey roots
beneath the dye?
I walk by the photo when I was 37.
What happened to that face?
I want it back!
The printer prints.
I look in the mirror, distressed.
In my family, I can expect
another twenty years.
Twenty years?
If I don’t do something to this face,
in twenty years…
The printer prints.
writingontherim 
It is a journey, isn’t it? The one we walk with our faces. Morning after morning, seeing that new person in the mirror. Perhaps she has something to teach us?
My daughter says I am vain. Because of yoga perhaps, I physically am quite ok, but I do not like those wrinkles etc. one speck. Anyone who says they do not care, I do not believe.
Thank you for capturing perfectly the words and mood that a look in the mirror can bring. Your friend is on to something asking us if our face has something to teach us. The problem for me is that my face doesn’t seem to tell the truth and it has let me down, disappointed me, forcing me to project who I am through my eyes perhaps if anyone takes the time to look into them, or my heart if anyone can feel it, or my aura perhaps if anyone can read it.
People who claim they are aging gracefully–well…Although mentally and physically in terms of what I can do not much different from 20 years ago. However, how I look…Maybe for men it is different and others see the aging of men differently as well.