Every now and then
I forget
The bloom has left the cheek -
Wilted and blown away,
The once firm flesh of desire
Has gone to flabby display.
And then I am brought up short
By the image in the mirror
Of youth's turned off eyes.
It is then I realize
That stunning actuality
Of my unequivocal mortality.
We cannot,
Though we dare,
Deny the years.
They cling about us,
And in us
Unawares,
Despite our spirit's
Debonair commissioner -
Ego.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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