You are confronted with yourself. Each year.

The pouches fill, the skin is uglier.
You give it all unflinchingly.

You stare. Into yourself, beyond. Your brush’s care

Runs with self-knowledge. Here

Is a humility at one with craft. There is no arrogance.

Pride is apart From this self-scrutiny.

You make light drift. The way you want. Your face is bruised and hurt But there is still love left.