Each silver line
in the brown field
is a tally mark,
a score kept in a game
I thought was just for fun.
But in and through this
fun there are rules,
there are numbers hard
and inflexible.
Years that do not grow longer.
Days that do not ask permission to fly.
Even without counting them,
the light lifts each
silvered hair in the mirror,
reminding me that there is
nothing certain
but this: a fading, a loss
of color and life, a score
that will one day
be settled.
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