My reflection
winks back youth
in smooth-skinned grins
and pigtail innocence,
the freedom of sandals
and a skirt with no slip.
I am a girl in a convertible
blonde hair tickling the sky.

It is light bounced into a lie.

I angle my approach to glass
and metal, try to see
from the sharp-sighted
corner of my eye
how my shoulders stoop,
how my thin hair shows pink beneath.
Squint as I might, I cannot find
the crone within.