I admit I’m taking sanctuary, waiting for the rain. I really cannot help it that I’m foolish and I’m vain. It’s lack of all humidity causing my hibernation. This dryness is my scapegoat. I am needing rain’s hydration.
Once there’s water in the air, my cavities will out, and all these ugly wrinkles are destined to fill out. I’m praying to the rain gods, though I don’t like to beg, for the wrinkles on my torso are spreading to my leg.
My hand backs are so furrowed they’re impervious to lotions. My crepey neck defies even my most expensive potions. I’m succumbing to my wrinkles. I’ve barely a smooth patch. I think I’d be the winner in a “most wrinkled” match.
In the aging Olympics, I would surely win the gold. I’ve passed from young to middle-aged and ended up at “old.” I’ve given up on vagueness and modesty and pride. I’m bluntly revealing the condition of my hide.
Yes, I’ve succumbed to wrinkles. and my only hope’s the rain. Surely with humidity, I’ll plump right up again!!!!
I’m held captive by your wrinkles, dear, enraptured by your ripples. I love your freckles and your moles and all of nature’s stipples. They are sacred landmarks. When I find one that is new, I must give thanks to nature for adding more of you.
Sometimes with the darkness around us rich and deep, my mind goes on a walkabout as you lie asleep. The roadmap of your body is the terrain that I pace— the ravines and the gullies and your face’s fragile lace.
Some bemoan the changes that nature brings about, and they bring a different beauty. It’s true, without a doubt. But as I trace each special feature of your body and your face, I’m reassured that nature’s carving instills a deeper grace.
Once when I was younger, poundage was the thing— as I obsessed about the growth calories might bring. Every morning on the scale, I checked for extra girth. Any extra poundage was how I gauged my worth. But now that I am older, I check the mirror first before I stop to weigh myself or slake my morning thirst. First thing on my agenda, if I have the chance, is to approach my mirror to have a daily glance. Now every little wrinkle, every little line viewed within my mirror brings a little whine. But when I step upon the scale, there’s less there to regret. If I’ve gained a pound or two, I vow just to forget. For if I’ve found new wrinkles, all that I can say is every extra pound I gain just stretches them away.
I wrote to this exact prompt four years ago, so here it is again. The prompt word today is wrinkle.