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  • Some days, I peer at you in the mirror,
    seeking out the single threads
    of white and gray,
    outnumbered, for now,
    by threads of brown.

    Don't worry, I'll leave you there;
    I like how you look --
    streaks of silver running through the earth,
    the trails of shooting stars against the sky.
    In fact, gray hairs, I treasure you;
    You remind me that I can change,
    and have already done so:
    I was infant, Maiden, and now Mother,
    and you are proof.

    I don't know what's still to come,
    but in your silent and gentle growth,
    you hint at wondrous possibilities:
    One day, I will be the Crone,
    an old woman, changed, and still alive,
    and you will be my miraculous crown
    of shooting stars.
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