Wrinkled

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I am greeted each morning
by my increasingly wrinkled brow:
an incarnate testimony to a lengthening life
       marked by wonder and surprise,
horizontal lines like sheet music
       that buttress a soulful melody of endless astonishment,
       that frame my singing, searching eyes.
Against a culture that wants women to be flat,
I refuse to smooth out and stifle
all that I have (and will) express.
For I know my plowed brow to be revelatory,
        seeded with imagination
              and emotion
              and ecstasy;
my skin multifaceted and tender
       in accordance with my innermost being.
Wrinkled, I am more myself
— and therefore more fully yours:
       a divine dream unfolding
       in the folding of my flesh,
my forehead to yours in prayer
       an increasingly intimate communion.
For the lines you are writing
       in my story and upon my face,
I give wide-eyed, wrinkly thanks.
Amen.