The signs of weathering wear and tempest tear are running deeper every year, like fingernail trails in sandstone, or crow’s footprints leaving their mark on sagging skin. Here is where you make the choice: to tumble gracefully in flowing cotton, or attempt to girdle every last nuance of youth with rope and new mortar, plastering it all back together again. Now is when you decide whether to let yourself laugh or keep taut, narrowing your eyes at Father Time.
Flowers grow within and whether they are blooms or weeds depends on how you view them. I urge you, let the winds come and the rains fall, and dance in both, paying no heed to what crumbles. Do not be tight-lipped, casting stones all about you, never thinking for a moment it might be you who is falling apart.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com