Who is this woman in my mirror,
the one who looks like she's been
worked on by Rembrandt or Dürer?
Why are there mail sacks sagging under
her chin? Wasn't it just yesterday
I was doing my hair on rollers
the size of orange juice cans?
Why is my scalp, pink as an eraser,
showing through? What happened
to my snappy ponytail that switched
and danced when I cheered? I still feel fresh
as the first day of school, new plaid skirt,
box of sharpened crayons, pencils that no one
has written with yet. Why is this young man
from down the street shoveling my driveway?
Doesn't he know my shoulders have lifted
great burdens? Can't he see I've already hefted
huge shovelfuls of sorrows and stars?
Mirror by Barbara Crooker | Pink Peony Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
