Another storm comes
And goes
And leaves
A dusting on the front porch
Freshens the still white pasture
That was brown from the sands in the spring winds
Laces the spruce tree with an antique patina as if
Once again I was looking at an old faded photo
On my grandma’s knick-knack shelf
Above her big farmhouse porcelain sink
Somewhere there in suburbia with the little lawn
And front steps where we’d wait for mailman and milk truck.
Yesterday I looked in the mirror
Something I’m not keen on doing
And saw
The silver frosting as if from that snow
I lifted my hand to brush it away
My hand empty but for wrinkles so plentiful on the backside
And I wonder from where these came
On hands still so strong and able and firm
Hands which provide fare and comfort in a harsh world
Creased with lines
Deep with stories
How can I be aging when I have yet to grow up?