When the
face we wear
grows old and weathered, torn
open by time,
colors
tinted as dawn
like the late
winter mountains
of Sedona
ashen and crimson.
It will no longer
be possible
to distinguish
our deepest scars
from the long
sweet lines left
by laughter.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
Photo by Huyen Nguyen
Comments are now closed on this page. We invite you to join the conversation in our new community space. We hope to see you there!