Aging

Nature ages like Youth, a bougainvillea wrapped around a strapless watch. Youth doesn’t look at the clock but ignores passing hours unknowing, innocent of the melting water. It leaps and lunges without fear of a fading silhouette, it smiles with missing teeth, gaps filled with dreams that will change. Youth giggles at the simplest of movements, it blanches under praise - it drifts along shores, feeling hearing holding then abandoning the flotsam and jetsam of aging. It is a bundle of yesterday’s plans ostracised by calendars, unaware that friends will leave, as trenches are dug by hands, wrinkled. Youth is a promise milked into creams, it is a sweating desire to return, rediscover the suppleness of joints, of bones, of possibility. Youth has not yet become a mouth that sighs, is bougainvillea still free from being entwined, twisted and tied. It is not yet conscious of time as an intangible abstract forever