The mirror (much too bluntly accurate)
like a camera clicking on an instant,
sheds light on consequence of time.
I see me,
a speck of dust in something timeless perhaps,
but now a woman
human, flawed within perfection,
life's wrinkles digging skin,
tinted lies on colorless hair,
shrinking bones, flesh stretching down
to meet gravity's extended arms
offering an embrace of old.
"All is relative", someone said.
So as for beauty, the beholder
will decide, but she knows
the nature of its depth.
The mirror fails to reflect
in her eyes, lives a child
of constant birth, seeking to suckle
life 'til dry, to discover growth
of soul, as the body declines.
The mirror sees a forgettable image,
aging Latina, features unremarkable,
of diminished stature and expanded girth
but this vision I must contradict,
though my opinion seems narcissistic,
unrealistic at the least,
I see me beautiful, molded the only way
I could have been, uniquely sculptured
in this shell, where life has lived
me so very well.