Blessed be, 

           each of your wrinkles. 

For it was wisdom you earned 

         and shared 

that drove the canyons and carved those lines. 

Blessed be, 

           your hair,  

           grey, white or gone. 

For the sacrifice of time and patience 

           and love

changed them forever or drove them away.  

Blessed be, 

          the tar stains 

          on your lips and teeth and fingers. 

For they are the imprint of every cigarette you smoked 

          every two minutes 

          past when I should have been home.  

Blessed be, 

          your arthritis.  

It stands as testimony 

          to all the times you ran, jumped, tripped 

          to protect me.  

You are a sacred person, indeed, 

         for you chose your path 

to be my sanctuary.   

— Trisha J. Wooldridge