Crisis


Fifty and some is a restless place;
hungry for changes, short on time,
and forgetting how the pieces used to fit.

These are the years of fences,
tearing down and building new;
while the person I became has 
crumbled into parts of everyone else.

I am little bits of mirrors,
with faces and hands and eyes
of friends and family, looking all alike
yet, suddenly unfamiliar.

All made into a “this is me”;
formed without my consent,
while I was searching for blocks to build
some different sort of monument
to the person I hold in this mirror.




Shirley Alexander
©  2006

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