My Aging Body
My aging body softened like fruit left in the sun,
not spoiled, but sweetened, skin like parchment
folded by time’s quiet hands.
It bends like branches heavy with years,
cracking softly under memory’s weight,
as knees creak like old floorboards,
back arches like a question mark.
Yet there is grace in the way I carry pain,
like a well-worn coat with silver strands
that catch the morning light.
I'm a vessel of endurance that whispers history
with every breath, each scar a story,
each wrinkle a map, each heartbeat a quiet drum,
a song of becoming, a life still unfolding.
Author: Peter A. Witt
Photo Credit: Doan Anh on Unsplash
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