I like how I grow thin as I grow old,
as if age would reduce me
to something elemental.

I like how my face sculpts a clean line,
caving in, how, hair by hair,
my head goes blank as salt,

heavy stone of memory’s freight,
seeking balance
by becoming white.

I grow more tender towards myself,
take time to loaf,
to let things set;

I awake, lie still awhile,
take account
of pulse and limb.

Rising this morning,
I went to the window, where
the sun slipped higher, fluidly,

to fuse the dawn. Squinting in the ramp
of light, it took a moment before
I saw my reflection, face

fresh from slumber, last
scrap of darkness
cleaving in my cheeks.

Sarah Sloat 

If you've any comments on this poem, Sarah Sloat  would be pleased to hear from you.