The Gravity of Changing Seasons

Parchment skin
dry and brittle
upon which Time charts herstory.
Veins like roadmaps
rise to the translucent surface.
Unfurrowed brow still frowns in peace
and a relaxed mouth hovers between parentheses,
    collagen-sapped jowls,
    and slackened chin.
Perky breasts with lush protruding buttons
    droop lower than she remembers
Sexy concave navel nested among rigid abs
now punctuates the hilly contour of softened belly and widened hips,
    retired from bikinis and incubating progeny.

She examines the reflected breasts, belly, thighs, and ass
astonished at their eagerness to drop to her feet;
the only thing that has risen is the curve of her hips.
Great.
Her youthful zest and girlish spirit
are betrayed by her mirror -
    objective judge and harsh accuser.
There is no defense against the compelling evidence
accumulating above the briefs
in the creases and folds of ivory vellum.
No fair trial for youth and beauty.
The sentence is consistent:
incarceration in crumbling cells
with no chance of reprieve.

When did vibrant summer turn to fading fall?
Can dead of winter be far behind?

 

(c)2009 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)