The line is still tight taut,
the one I could not cross
My Border with Death
Younger Men, Unaware
When I brazen gaze at younger men,
the silver of my hair protects me
Facelifts (after Milton Friedman)
A wrinkling face is our tocsin.
Time will march on.
It’s All Relative
Two grandmothers and my mother,
four generations–skipping one–