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I never thought much about them, really,
except for blush on cheekbones
regularly complimented in youth.
Today I do think about bones,
pay tribute to bones of my ancient past,
smile at memories of bones jumped,
bones caressed under fleshy cloaks,
bones full of tender meat falling softly away
into big pots of savory broth,
bones honeycombed, bones chalky,
thigh bones like concrete slabs,
marrow bones from lamb chops,
juicy delicacies that remind me of
my father at kitchen table
with yellow and red vinyl cloth,
noisily rejoicing in the last drops of
life’s simple pleasures.
My dead mother’s tiny bones
were fragile like porcelain teacup cracks,
blue-grey veins I loved to trace
with childhood fingers.
Later she rubbed her slender limbs,
varnished them with icy hot,
complained of perpetual pain.
Here I am now, hands like hers
wearing her cherished rings,
but stuck with my own achy bones,
tethered to what years and genetics create.
Once I worked so hard to grow my wings.
Do you remember how I used to be?
The look or feel of future bones is still
beyond my time-machine imagination.
Yes my cup runneth over as I try to catch
each drop before I no longer can.
I refill it daily, yet its contents diminish
without a shred of mercy.
My bones ache even if I will them not to.
Bones will be bones!
Clouds drift by, delightful pearly puffs.
I watch them with pleasure and no worry now.
Clinging to youth is a pointless pastime.
Iris is a Life Stage, Family, Relationship Changes Coach. Find her here, or at