Help me not to grieve over myself,
As time travels across my forehead,
As the mirror reminds me, I have lived.
Help me stop scolding the sun,
For resting on my skin,
And the wind for flying so close to my cheeks.
Help me stop bullying my wrinkled hands,
But to cherish their work –
Holding reins on summer cattle drives,
Laying hands over sick lambs for prayers of healing.
Help me remember,
As the years pile up like mail on the kitchen table,
How my soul grows in wonder –
Smooth and soft,
Younger each day.
Sentel Schreier 
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