Art in Progress
By Juliet Dyer

Thirty-five has not been kind
To my abs or my behind.
What started up is moving down,
My cheek’s new jowls make a frown.
I can’t see close or hear a thing,
And when I wave, my triceps swing.
Gray grows where brown hair used to be,
And store clerks all say “ma’am” to me.
But…
“Magnificent” is another word,
Although it may sound quite absurd,
To describe myself as falling apart,
And, yet, also a work of art.
These years twixt thirty and thirty-nine
Bridge youth to beauty, fair to fine.
And, hopefully, years yet to be
Will reveal a weathered, but wiser me.