Aging.
She avoids mirrors, but some day she
stares at the lines changing her face slowly, silently spreading
like new roots around her eyes.
At first she feared the loosening,
her skin separating itself gradually from her bones.
She taught herself to stroke the bark of weathered trees,
to like the feel of the survivor of storms and snows.
Sitting in the afternoon sun eyes closed,
she imagines she's lying in the warm Earth,
her skin a rich soil in which the thin roots move, sprout
wildflowers.