Darwin was right, of course.
Atom by atom
we morph through time
mutating daily.
Less nymphette, more Cycladic,
the loping runs and gracious twirls
give way
to loosely swinging arms,
nanobursts of wit and mystery.
At night, our bodies cry
with deep aches and coiled tension.
A wide-eyed flower-child
has become
just another grandmother for peace.
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