I see you're getting old, sitting there,
With youthful eyes, but graying hair;
But I recall the splash of tresses
Blending with the golden sands.
The time shows in your hands;
You don't hide the blemishes
That youthful pride concerned you with;
The thin lines of loosening skin
Are not what keep you in.
But I recall your winter porcelain,
And summer lines of worship;
Cherokee cheeks and Burmese neck,
Sun-dappled tops and blue jean dress,
The tennis smash and victory dance,
The on and off of our romance.
And in your memory, locked away,
You dance and sing and nurse your babies,
As if it were today.