bestowal

          I have her hands   to hold her stories            

acceptance

            if wrinkles were flowers we’d all welcome them                

out to pasture

                         

metaphor

                “Let the labyrinth of wrinkles be furrowed in my brow with the red-hot iron of my own life, let my hair whiten and my step become vacillating, on condition that I can save the intelligence of my soul – let my unformed childhood soul, as it ages, assume the rational and esthetic forms of an architecture,…

ripening

                  the heat stifles flowers wilt fruit ripens (as do I)    August is approaching