I never know why her primary complaint
late in life is sagging, whisper-thin skin,
crepe paper she calls her dermis and all
when worries instead should look to her bones.
Arms like brooms, fingers matchsticks
waiting to snap! and light the fire,
a will-o-the-wisp to lead the young
eagerly toward the marsh of age.
Throw a party, toast antiquity!
Unfurl your crepe paper and strike a match
light your lanterns and let them shine,
through marrow and skin, aging reward
that can’t be mimicked or bought on time,
for youth cannot outdo your fete!
© 2003 Jason C. Jones