I Will Wear this Crown

Used to be only a hint glinted through the masses
giving suggestion to waxing maturity.
Color now rapidly waning
silver sweeps up the sides.

I'm told it's fair
and I wonder if truth's been told.
It feels radical not lovely.
Courage not chemical poured over pores.

Culture taunts with youth and its esteem.
Sisters, we are compelled to cover.
Depreciation might bring wounds to bear
but when bare there is liberty.

Freedom to welcome the years
and the pull on my body.
Hard fought, my will counsels
that this slipping toward finish is good.

Time, gift and leveler, does its work.
As days mingle into years
the bounty of one is at the expense of the other
and I nurture the wan.

Softness continues its creep,
and my edges get increasingly blurred.
Twilight doesn't seem so long away
and I curate the beauty of this slow fade.

Sons, daughters, the loveliness of this life
has been bought but is not for sale.
Often we are given the first blush of its gift,
but it is ours to cultivate if we will.

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Today is my father's 70th birthday.  I've not known him to have a regular practice of reading poetry, but I think in recent years he's come to listen carefully to the poet when reading a poem and has developed an appreciation for this form.

Happy Birthday, Dad.  Although this is about me, I trust you'll read and hear the voice that's attempting to speak for all of us who may not yet be old but certainly are no longer young.

Proverbs 16:31
Gray hair is a crown of glory;
it is gained in a righteous life.

Would you like to read more of my dad's journey with cancer?  You'll be blessed.  Click here.

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What do you think...a morning cup together and a poem every Saturday?  Might you comment and grace me with your thoughts?

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