It’s not that a year is new and all,
but looking back is a free fall
of hair, long, with strands of grey,
sprinkled, as if to say:
remember me, remember when?
I used to search for them, pluck them,
Now I comb through to see
the silver lined memories of you and me.
Like tinsel, they reflect, stand out.
Yesterday you said this is what it’s about.
Owning age, thankful, line after line,
Mapping our faces, tracking our time.
Under this sun there is nothing really new,
Except our hearts gleaning what is true.
I will run my fingers through.
Yes, I will run my fingers through.
For Barbara January 2019