She doesn’t see
the beauty that I do
when she looks at her face.

The ghosts
that swoop and hover in the
oceans of her eyes
give them more depth,
to me,
but she just sees
old memories.

The tiny scar that dips
a bit below her hairline
serves to mark, for her,
“corrections”
from her father’s heavy hand;
but it shows me
she’s proven under fire
and signifies
how hard she tries each day
for gentleness
with our own
precious brood.

My covert glances
at the creases
showing tiny near her eyes
and mouth
bring happiness as
I recall
the laughs we’ve shared
and smiles made
while we were
living in the moment.
These signs loom large
to her,
a billboard,
screaming that she’s growing old
having never felt the joy
of being young.

And while these things
inspire me to
cling more tightly
to her trembling frame,
they only make
her want
to push away.

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