Bonnie Poem by Tony Avila Sampson

Now that's my sister, she's Bonnie,
Who's like an old branch on a tree;
She's now on this day, fifty-three,
Soon to be really old? Not she!
Over the hill, a downward thrill!
Down she goes at gravity's will,
Be to come that age creepy chill,
But to be happy, will she still?
In the mirror, as old age braggs
Look around the eyes, see any bags?
What about wrinkles, that life snaggs?
Or the face lines, where the skin sags?
Over fifty, she is antique,
But all those years made her unique,
The way she walks, the sway, its creak,
The way she moves, it's her technique.
Swift comes the age that be quite old
Cain awaiting the hand to hold,
There's no hurry, she's very bold,
She is Bonnie, you that I've told.