Birthdays are a Cause for Pause

I did not know

that bodies could grow old

while the soul stayed young ...

still barefoot on summer grass,

still running toward the sound

of someone calling my name.

No one told me

the mirror would change

but the watcher behind my eyes

would not.

That this lined, wrinkled face

would belong to someone

who still feels seven inside.

How strange, to walk with

stumbling gait,

to harbour aches and pains

to grumble as eyes dim,

while my spirit hums

like a child skipping rope at recess.

The world sees the shell - the silver hair,

the careful steps,

the map of years carved into skin -

and assumes time has claimed me.

But inside, the ageless one still chuckles over silliness,

still dreams too wildly,

still believes in morning light.

It is only the vessel that wears down,

only the outer garment that frays. The inner flame?

It burns untouched - older than my bones,

younger than my breath,

made of something time cannot name.

Some days,

I look at my own reflection

with a soft, puzzled reverence.

Who is that elder in the glass?

Where did she come from?

How could she be me,

when inside I feel so newly made?

Perhaps this is the mercy:

that the farther the body walks into age,

the nearer the soul comes to its truth -

shining through, quiet, steady,

more itself than ever before.

Maybe this is what it means to grow older:

not to fade, but to uncover.

Not to diminish,

but to become transparent

to

the light inside.

And so I live in this blessed paradox -

this aging skin,

this undiminished spirit -

two timelines touching mystery,

one heading toward sunset,

the other toward eternity.

For the child in me

has never stopped wondering,

and never stopped listening ...

for the Voice that first breathed life into her ...

to the One who made her soul young,

and kept it so,

even as the years gathered like snow

around her feet.