Bring Back Big Families

One poem every day for twenty-eight straight days this February. Suffice it to say, I’m in my Poetry Era.

My hairline quietly steps back
like an old friend saying goodbye without fuss.
Temples thinning, crown opening to sky.
I trace the new geography in the mirror
and feel less panic with each look, only time doing its gentle work.

Each lost strand carried away
a small story, a late night, a laugh,
a tear, a thousand worries smoothed by life.
What remains is lighter, grayer,
more honest.

I smile at the man looking back.
He’s not defeated, just arrived.
Still here.
Still mine.

More gone soon, but not forgotten.

Dear friend, I remember us as we were, not as we are.

And that solace is a gift. I need it.