By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 2015

She worried once
about the silver threading
through her blondness.
Until the morning she stopped,
let her hair tell its story.

The face I fell for
has become a map.
Every smile she’s given,
worry she’s carried.

Her fingers stiffened
from office work,
from preparing meals.
Broken nails,
flour in the creases.

She moves with care now.
No longer the quick bird.
Yesterday, she stood
at the kitchen window
watching finches.

Just stood.
Just watched.

The light caught her profile.
Not what stopped my breath
at twenty-one.
Something else.

She laughs
when young women ask her wisdom.

“Time,” she says.

They think she’s joking.

Soft grays now,
sedate blues.
Watch her hiking.
Sun through silver hair,
dirt on strong hands.

This morning
she turned in her sleep.

In the half-light
I studied that arm.

Marked by sun,
by years.

The silver threading
catches first light.
Outside, finches return
to the feeder.