The Hand That I've Been Dealt
The mirror used to be my friend;
Alas, those days have reached the end.
I see my face and can’t pretend
I’m anything but old.
I guess it’s me beneath the skin
That wrinkles somehow settled in
And make-up couldn’t quite begin
To spin this straw to gold.
My earrings still remain in place
And, just like always, frame my face,
But time will not let me erase
Its firm, relentless hold.
Yet I’m still in the living game.
The hand that I’ve been dealt I’ll claim
And, though I don’t look quite the same,
I’m not prepared to fold.
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