by mandaceehb

she is already growing old

with her

aversion to stairs

hair and skin wrinkling, graying like subtleties of

layered marble

it strikes me that a time will come when

she will not be mobile enough to

dye her roots black,

head bent over sink in the dark bathroom

hair helplessly blossoming into

meadows of fallen snow

when her trembling hands cannot still themselves

enough to secure the clasp of strung pearls

at the nape of her fragile neck

i must be growing older too

if i am beginning to see ageing as a process

instead of a state which we are

inevitably gravitated towards