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 polished 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 with each sequential glance
became a self portrait, a biopic

in intimate time of film frames
on a reel of spring fields
which, between glimpses,

had been raked by a ruthless gardener
determined to turn fresh life into that
which can barely be remembered

Jim Culleny

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s