My Father's Face

From somewhere far beneath, My father's face is rising to replace my own. Each year the brightly silvered surface of my mirror Reveals some other common feature Pushing its way to the fore. The silver of the years finds its way Into the hair retreating at the same rate; Years marching forward as the hairline marches back In lockstep time. What's left shines With the wintry distinction of age. Whose eyes are these that now look out From beneath my brow? Are these the eyes that watched my child in sleep, Or now those elder eyes that watched over me so long ago? And what self is that at rest behind my silvered temples, That rests its thoughts so heavy on these things? Photos of the two of us together Show the kinship of expression The matching etchings of experience That leave no doubt As to the common blood by which we're bound. I can no longer view myself Without his prescence being there as well; Moreover, the image of his father Shows the like upwellings in him. The visage of the man who came before The three of us I've never seen; But I deem it probable there was little difference, And so back this face we share may go, ad infinitum. Every face is a story Of the life and its ways that shaped it. This being so, I cannot help but feel ennobled By the lines and lessons which have been passed to me. This is the face I shall carry From now to the end of my days. My I tend it, and wear it, well.