With Love, From Mirror

You spend too many hours before my frame,

Cataloguing imperfections by name,

Strands of gray, which, through the years, have grown bold-

(Silver is a precious metal to hold)

Faint crows feet, that you think tarnish your face,

(Echoes of joy, and laughter’s lasting trace)

The pounds of flesh you starve yourself to shed,

(The home of organs, without which, you’re dead)

Your eyes, of slightly diff’rent proportions,

(I see only their blue, not discordance)

Your hands, larger than those thought “feminine,”

(Have built, written novels, and raised children)

Often, your reflection makes you distraught;

I will see your beauty when you cannot.