Delicate are the lines,
that mark an inner peace,
harsher are the furrows,
that pain and sorrow teach.
No lines at all abound,
about a baby’s eyes,
staring back at Heaven,
when leaving Paradise.
Laughter’s lines are curvy,
like a pebble’s wake,
spreading joy beyond itself,
and smoothing lines of hate.
Worry’s lines assemble,
in wavy little rows,
pinching in upon themselves,
to bottle up their woes.
The lines that frighten most,
and the lines I dread to see,
harken of this temporal span,
of fragile destiny.
Yet best those lines of wisdom,
etched deep within the face,
trenched by years of coping,
and facing life with grace.
The signature of living,
these lines reflect the soul,
sweeter even than the lines,
that bend around a smile.