by Richard Vince

She is old; she is young.
She is a mass of expectations
Nestled in a hundred hearts,
Including her own.

When she sees herself reflected
In other eyes, is the image
Distorted, or is it merely
The her from the mirror,
Slowly starting to hide behind
The dust of preconception?

It is a feeling I remember:
Home being not home, but
The loneliest place in my life,
My own private dystopia.

I want to share this memory
With her, but what would that
Achieve? I can tell her nothing
She does not already know;
I can be nothing she does not
Already have. I keep my silence.

The same light that can age
My hands can age her face:
It lends a seriousness that
Belies her youth. It is
Both blessing and curse.

I must turn away my eyes,
And learn to trust that
There is a way ahead for her
Just as there was for me.

She is a part of my life, but
I cannot be a part of hers;
I must not become another
Expectation she does not need.


Posted on 03/21/2018
Copyright © 2021 Richard Vince

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Glenn Currier on 03/27/18 at 02:13 PM

Sometimes poems speak of mystery. This seems to be one of those time, at least to me. You lead me beyond in several directions and I am privileged to, for just a moment, accompany you. Thanks Richard

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