I know the contours of your face,

    time molded it like clay

      depreciated by blue moons,

your eyes are still deep pools

   of history's mysteries and grace,

lived a thousand deaths,

    exhaled many more intentions  

years have deemed you wise,

  yet, you never falter to inquire

       universal burning notions,

   exactly why your infectious smile  

        appears younger than

               springtime baby's breath