Touch of Gray

Light slips wet around
a thread silvering
the fringes then kicks off
to flight, there like riches
then gone. Not so fast
as months ago
when gleam was hint
alone of buried vein
and I had to burrow
my fingers to the root to find
the creeping splay
of ore, that fine white web
fanning out
its promise
of more.

Coiled as tight
as scrolls into follicle
each precious strand
an imaginal disk
containing one embryonic
fragment of the crone
I will become. If I am lucky
enough to catch in my silk
a glimpse
of the light an early February
dusk sees fit to fling
at my head in the liquid bend
of an atrium
window, fortune unfurls
as thin as Chinese paper. Her dim edge
peels slightly from the me
I am already leaving behind
and I see how tomorrow
and her progeny
will walk me
backwards and blind
through the pool Ponce de Leon
did in fact find but failed
as all of us do
(until wing, until lift)
to recognize metmorphosis
as far preferable to crysalid
to say nothing of larval
eternity.

Closer still
that quiet roar, age
prods me to step
under the crystal shower
and while I shiver
there, weaves for me
a crown
from ribbons
of ice.
 

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