Mother

My mother stands in front of a mirror and says,

“I hate to look at my face.”

It’s the wrinkles she fears – those subtle

            lines of wisdom, experience, life itself

Fifty-five, looking barely forty-six

Her worries are needless

Yet she compares her face to mine

            And I am green in the world, young in life

            My face like a baby’s – two eyes peering out unknowing

            Innocent

            Brash

My face is my mother’s a few years ago

But she faces the mirror and says,

“I look so old.”

She does not understand she looks like life treated well

            I want to age like her

            An imprint of a good life to show the world

            Lines of age, but mostly beauty