It is a fond habit of mine, long established,
To glance into the windows of vehicles
Which pass along side of mine in traffic,
In hopes of catching the profile of youth,
A pretty young girl with luminescent skin,
Long thick hair flowing down her neck.
And again, on this fine Sunny morning,
On my way to the redundancy of my job,
I made such a glance of hopeful expectation,
Through the window of a large, tan sedan,
Catching, instead, the profile of another age,
A cast glance into youth decades long past,
Now lined with the age of a lady elderly.
And it called to mind my own dear Mother,
Who, at 77, has lost several inches height,
Whose hair is grey, features lined with age,
But whom I recall from old photos, and
From my own childhood memories of her,
As being so young and so very beautiful.
And thinking then upon my own life and age,
Now being 56, with newfound accouterments
Of that age which creeps unnoticed upon us,
Yet with the feeling within of that same youth
Which was mine seemingly only yesterday,
And which was the lady's in the tan sedan
Only days before; in the youth of the heart,
Which is ours long after the body testifies
To a different set of facts and circumstances,
The youth which is sometimes captured,
Fleetingly, in the window of a passing car.
