Bright Shiny Days Like This
You see me turn in front of the long mirror,
adjust my skirt, frown at the reflection, and sigh.
Knowing I never take compliments for honest truth,
you offer anyway. You tell me I am beautiful.
Before I can stop my brain from reaching my mouth,
it spills: 'I am fifty-six and not getting younger, ' I retort.
I want to take it back, say 'thank you, ' tell you
'I think you are beautiful too. Always.'
You come to hold my chin firmly in your hand
and inspect my upturned face for wordless clues.
'You are the woman I am in love with. Always.'
I feel that. I do know that. I see it in your eyes.
I am not afraid of wrinkles, or softness in places
that have forgotten how to spring back when pressed.
Those things mean nothing in the whole reflection.
The real worry is that I am desperately in love.
I am in love with wind when it caresses tall grass,
with the dance of sunlight through orange and green leaves,
with the sparkle of water over smooth stones and moss;
I am in love with Life, and all the little wrinkles it gifts me.
I am in love with the echo of me in a granddaughter’s smile,
with the welcome awake hug of my son on new mornings,
with the rise and fall of your chest while you are sleeping;
I am in love with Life, and all the soft places it gifts me.
I count the days; save them like bright shiny pennies in a jar.
I want to invest my time wisely, and see interest accumulate
in the form of days like this, when I catch your glance in a mirror,
and see my reflection slide back to beautiful in your eyes.
Shirley Alexander's Other Poems
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Edgar Albert Guest
(20 August 1881 - 5 August 1959)
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