The face in the mirror appraises me;
who is this person I've come to be?
I love my maturity; I hate what I've lost.
If the changes are good, do I dare count the cost?
No longer a child, not old but not young.
I marvel at the songs I've already sung.
Frown lines and gray hair appear in full glory;
oh--to whisk them away, but they tell my story.
The face in the mirror stares out at me.
It's my own choice to like what I see.
To be wise enough to understand, to cope,
in spite of emotions blurring my scope.
"Youth may be over; but the best is to be,"
said the face in the mirror, looking at me.
Like Spring dandelions we come, then leave
Those younger, who will grieve
In the hush of solemn day.
Mere breath has carried us away.
Fluff. Queen Anne's Lace.
Sorrow reflected on the face
Of those who loved us for years,
Now left anguished in a sea of tears.
The fleshly shell may be deceased;
Our souls take flight and are released.