Feather etchings of wrinkles,
our tributaries of experience, deepen
Must we forget what the soul always knows,
that appearance is not worth
and youth is not to be strived for
but grown beyond?
Instead of living seventy years
as wobbly egos forever hungry and
needing to be bolstered,
we can throw our arms, like thick-barked tree limbs,
our constant friend teaching us
the riches of storied contours and
what it is to truly live.