On Aging and Beauty

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The morning blooms
pale and pink,
warm and thick.
I am suddenly older.
I roll over.

A small body
has found his way to
my sheets.
I stare at the curve of his nose,
the way his hair wants to bend,
his dewy lips.

I never expected middle age
to feel so much like
revolution
or such a grand
unraveling.
I am turning.
I am molting.
This was unexpected.
I am still shedding–
beliefs
sacred cows
rules
understanding.
I am often scared.

But then
beauty finds me.
Again.
A plume of orange through the
window pane.
A shriek of laughter across the
yard.
The way his eye catches light then
spills when he smiles at me.
A child’s body in my bed, breathing.

Yes.
It will be beauty that
saves me
in the end.
It will be me
chasing its flaming tail
across time and knowing.
Always.

This revolution.
This unraveling.
This spinning.
All of it
has beauty in its wake.
And it finds me.

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