I sit on a bench in the middle of spring,
and absent-mindedly I tilt my head to the sky,
yet unknowingly, the sun creeps from behind
the clouds above and splashes my eyes with waves of light.

Averting my gaze from its hostile rays
I look back down to Earth
and see the crab apple petals tumble over the pavement,
falling into the cracks of the concrete.

The clock tower strikes noon
and I am brought back to reality,
the wind caresses the rough skin of my face
unworthy of the memories or reflections of others.

So that when I meet a child or a pretty woman
whose being is too soft and innocent
For my harsh appearance
I worry that to face them will taint their loveliness.

Yet I accept that this state of being is natural
no matter how menial, how painful,
and is a treasure, a reminder of my mortality,
somehow pleasant and homely, this feeling of vulnerability.

So I hope to enjoy this feeling while it lasts.