Sometimes, I don’t look
at mirrors. My morning reflection
recalls a storied past.

The grey stubble of an old man
whose mask has fallen prey
to time.

A hesitant smile, a head nod
acknowledge the vestiges
of life’s experiences.

A silvery streak of a scar
interrupts an eyebrow.
The bridge of a not quite

straight nose recalls
a turbulent past.
Matching depressions

from bifocals,
creases, crows-feet mark
a certain age.

A pause is all I can give
to lessons learned.
The past, a shadow

hitched to my heels.
I close my eyes,
breathe in my world,

piquant, pleasant
a simple survey
familiar and unique.

My feet pointing
towards an unknown
future.

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M.F. Charles lives in Waverly, Iowa. He is retired and spends time writing and publishing, gardening, and in community service. For him, a poem provides a chance to produce an effect in a reader.