With one grey hair on my chest and receding hair

I come to you humble and open

But you're a Jehoval Witness or so you've spoken

Put that all away - see only me

I'm a rare thing; I'm a

Stradivarius violin

Don't be unduly influenced by friends or kin

Although thirty-four, I have young eyes can't you see?

When those same boys you admire are wheelchair bound

My soul will be doing cartwheels and exploring space.

Find the rare thing in me. It will die without you.

The Blue Heron will become extinct;

The Sun's flares will die out, but I'll
love your eyes forever; I'll love that place.

I'll even love the tiger's birthmark on your face. Pray, what else can I do?          Mystery Writer