Like every storm cloud before
you, I am with clear silver backed;
though my tongue, free of glint, glistens
not with honey. I eye the silver sprouts
among the brunette, thinning pate.
Wisely you spend less in converse
with me. I am without guile, speaking
plainly. What you see in me is truth.
What you carry away in your view,
however, is a matter of your moment.
When you return at the end of labor,
your glance my way may, may not edify.
What you see in me will accurately tell
the damages of the day — but not relate
a possible arc of improvement. Morning
is always bleak for those who slumber
but fitfully. Return to home seldom brings
immediate return to health and glow.
You would do well to avoid me more often.
Life in Portofino 