The Wrinkled Years


Fifty, sixty or so years,

Some few lines form front of ears;

Lines under jaw and in the chin,

‘Tween brows, ‘long cheekbone,

Just beginning,

Still alone

and undeveloped.

Forearm skin a smidgeon snakelike,

Upper little marblecake-like;

Sarcopenic muscles forming,

Throwing in the towel, collapsing

And re-forming skin to hanging,

Puckering well nigh commencing.

Brand-new body parts to dwell on.

Thinning skin and hardening skin,

Aging’s mystery within.

Shrinking muscle,

Bulging knuckle,

New-ache joint.

There is no use in finding fault,

For who would one accuse?

All you have to do is point,

Looking while you paint your face,

Looking at the face you paint.

Looking while you pluck the chin,

Looking at the chin you’ve plucked.

The new-grown hair: laconic,

There, some in their lair.

Lips gone,


Moving on –

Because you can’t go back again –

Can’t re-gage the back-gone page;

Wrinkling years become the wrinkled years,

Or wrinkléd which sounds more poetic.

Deepening, alas pathetic,

Each to last

The rest

Of living.


The Wrinkled Years 5.28.2016

Circling Round Aging;

Arlene Corwin



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