My hair was almost black when I was born.
A young brunette, I argued with my peers
that contrast was more lovely, long or shorn,
but now I’ve grown my sable white with years.
I used to be the youngest in my crowd.
I skipped a grade, attracted older friends
with my precociousness and through my loud
unceasing mouth, but now my health extends
my vigor, while my cohort stoops and wanes.
I’m spending time with younger folks than me,
so getting used to being senior strains
the way I’ve viewed myself historically.
Such shifting qualities are nothing strange,
adapted as we are, to notice change.

This entry was posted in Aging, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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