To watch this face of mine grow old,
fatty cheeks dissolve to skin folds.
Battered features over time’s march mesh
and smooth into hanging flesh.
What a wondrous thing to live,
to watch yourself to become old and give.
It’s not a mournful occasion to hold
but yourself becoming old.
Were it not for vanity
I’d rather wear an ancient’s body
and dance the path to age and death
a wiser nature in my breath.