my hands are getting old every vein now proudly stands to attention as if I were a junkie filling them with living
they appear a little rough like i never listened long enough to the etiquette teacher when she warned us about ungloved hands and the harmful disaster associated with too much sunlight on pale, ivory skin...
My skin has grown silent mature calloused and scarred
etiquette teacher? wow. you really are old! manners are so out-dated. sorry. i'm, no doubt older, so i jest.
i've been reading and enjoying your poetry for a few days now. coming back for more bits. i love your style. not cluttered. spare, but eloquent. lots of things to relate to.
Very Graceful for the aging a sentence for the grazing Bring us all back its amazing This is perfect stuff to stuff the pages of time with an elderly rhyme a lovely chime all in a matter of time. You done well with this poem that tell the tale of the elderly and their fate of growing old with being bold I not far for totally with with wrinkles I will be a young 57 in about two weeks seeking the fountain of Youth.
The irony about having old hands at the very end of this creative poem proves that despite our afflictions in life, there's always a silver lining in every gray cloud. Great work Mary. A candidly clever write & read. :)
Great write Mary, I wouldn't call you vain. But I would call you pretty. Heck, I'd call you gorgeous!
It's wonderful when we get past all the image consciousness, and just accept who we care and carry ourselves with style.