My hair is an hour glass
each day a little more turns silver
each day a little less brown.
The stark white strands deride me
for things left undone.
They sneer at the time
that I allowed to slip through my fingers
unaccounted for, fallow.
They mock the high aspirations of youth
and chant “half done, half done, half done.”
My hair is a sash.
Little silver insignia appear daily
on the brown lawn.
One for birth, one for death,
one for every trip to the emergency room.
Each tear that falls
turns into a silent silver milestone,
a badge of honor
of another day hard won.