My Skin

My Skin

Today is my 48th birthday. So I rubbed my face
where the beard is, there, salted with grey.
My hands are so soft. Five decades
nigh on, everything is smooth. Supple, even.

I conjure a pair of leather gloves that would feel
as smooth against this face, this skin. Worn
to a frazzle -- in tatters, discarded long ago,
they would have not endured this examination.

But today my own hands feel the face that kissed
the cat of my childhood. The nose that breathed
the air of my beginnings. The lips that mouthed
the first words of my life. The eyes that saw it all.

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2011 --