Touch of Time

The fingers of time
brush across my face
and I half-heartedly wish them away.
I’ve noticed their presence
almost daily recently.
They’re usually gentle,
so light I can barely feel them.
Some days though,
they have such a tight hold on me
that I barely recognize myself in the mirror.
They really dug in last year,
knotting themselves in a handful of hair
with such force it went nearly white overnight.
Other days, I feel them tickle their way
over my hands, painting on new
age spots here and there,
or twisting my neck so masterfully
that I don’t feel their presence until the next morning.
I have no delusions of aging in reverse,
of waking to find my 20-year-old
self has returned.
And the touch of time does not scare me,
so much as wake me to the present and
push me to carry on.
The lines and wrinkles and grey
that are brought to me are
welcomed on some level…
and I embrace my lifetime’s caress.

April 24th
Prompt: Write a Touch Poem


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