I age into a baggy purple shirt
worn with a red sweater as homely 
as ancient cable knit can get.
No amount of promised skin renewal
can fill the creviced cheeks.
I look for the girl who lives within.

Reflections of youth are bittersweet
Sixteen, I struggled for composure.
Seventy-two, I struggle for balance 
of mind and body. Like a hummingbird 
sipping nectar, I hurry through each day
tasting precious moments.

I cast aside convention,
travel barefoot into the garden
in moonlight, in a sheer nightgown,
to taste ripe tomatoes.
I sit down beside the scarecrow 
wearing the cast-off purple shirt.
I'll keep the sweater.