On the other hand, that hint of a chocolate milk mustache could go....

I found a first grey hair the other day, on the occasion of having a haircut. (Such a frizzy mop I have that you can really only see individual hairs when they are whacked off and lying in my lap.) I'm thrilled about this, but am not having much luck sharing the joy. A grey hair! I say. That's, they say, that's .... uh, you sound happy about that?

Oh let me be shallow and in love
with surfaces, the way they dictate bones --
how for instance the skeletons of fish
remember thin quick water, or
how the human spine takes the shape
of wet clay squeezed between great fingers.
Is "longing" a shorthand
for the way tail-lights pull long tracks
from rain-wet pavement --
or "skin" a way of saying
even lovers move across a ground
of half-felt secrets. Or take
my hair, about which I have written
several books. I only want to say
how its frizz has marked me
as something wild or foreign.

Anyway, yup, I'm happy about it. I've fought damn hard just to here, and if mother nature wants to hand out silver stars, huzzah. Also, tremendously pleased that my first wrinkle (beyond a little eye crinkle) is the one that Spock would get from raising one eyebrow quizzically at the absurd, glorious, fascinating world.