She worries that her softest bloom is gone,
The beauty that was hers in younger years.
She reminisces days of early dawn,
When flawless skin awoke to gleeful cheers.
She frets her steps have lost their sultry dance,
Her slender figure time has cast away.
She dreads her crown to white will soon advance,
So feels it is in vain to hide her gray.
But I don't see the years her mirror shows,
Instead I view a bloom's maturing glow.
Her smile, her lively eyes and button nose,
Are still like early days of long ago.
The mirror only sees her graying years,
But I the graceful bloom beneath the tears.
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” ― William Wordsworth