Every wrinkle tells a tale,
each crease a reminder of
painful and pleasurable pacts,
dues paid fortune’s piper;
present laugh lines become 
future furrows that mark
quizzical moments speculating,
waiting like a footman for
silent answers; furtive glances 
into mirrors overlook contours,  
scars, liver spots, blemishes,
when shriveled mouths mimic
youthful lips forming words,  
elicit unexceptional memories
of people, places, and things
best forgotten, rationalize 
unkept promises as bad timing,
bringing them firmly into focus
where good news and ill tidings
equally exact a price for experience:
enduring folds freely offered in
exchange for eventual anecdotes .
                        

On first entering the Willow Glen house,
I passed below Spanish archways, adobe walls,  
& smiled at the comforting smell of old people
not realizing the welcoming aroma’s, a mixture of 
sweat, Lord Calvert, Kool cigarettes & cigar smoke. 

Grandma’s kitchen changed that pungent dynamic
beginning at 4 PM when she began to brown
whatever meat she would cook for our supper; her
cast-iron frying pan sputtered grease everywhere
but, on task, she seldom stopped to wipe up or clean. 

Fortified by heavy clip-earrings (my trademark cheap gift),
Grandma always wore a hand sown cotton apron over the
same white polka dot blue dress like a culinary uniform 
tied in a perfect bow that rested atop her corpulent rump
like a Siamese cast sprawled out on freshly washed towels

Wedged in ceramic jars, wooden spoons stood at attention,
ready to mix her secret recipes, stir the magic ingredients;
a kitchen wall exhaust fan pulling aromatic scents through
the circular porthole—fragrances emanating from her oven, 
into night’s pitch—crafted by her clever, wrinkled hands.

Grandma saved me in college from subsisting on tuna fish;
when I visited, she’d prepared me an entire leg of lamb; slicing
into its flesh, making X marks, she slid slim slivers of garlic,
cloves, and onions; I’d leave with all leftovers (nostrils still
inhaling mint jelly) & an earnest invitation to visit more often.
                        

Birds begin to sing only minutes before
dawn’s bright smile lights up early morning,
creating prisms as sunrays pass through
dewdrops on spiderwebs & bats fly into
dark awnings, accessible attics, & open barns.

Chirping seems to simultaneously cease as 
if a conductor clued-in all feathered friends 
the appropriate time to feed on worms that
gather in garden dirt and uncut lawns, to
enjoy a brief respite from saturated soil.

From daybreak unbound until midnight’s edge,
nature’s rituals continue, creatures consummate
circadian habits & share adventurous moments as
the master weaving spider, Arachne, extends 
artistic masterpieces, persevering ‘til tomorrow.