With mirrors the aging face became personal.
Before, it hung only on the heads of others,
but with awareness that the still surface
of a pond returned the image of the seer,
when buffed metals revealed a troubling truth,
when a silver-backed slab of glass
served up serial images of bald fact with precision
denial was impossible—
the aging face became a self portrait
in intimate time like film frames
on a reel of spring fields that between glimpses
had been raked by a ruthless gardener
determined to turn new life into that
which can only be remembered

Jim Culleny


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