Wrinkles Poem by Liilia Talts Morrison

A face is like a map of sorts
its lines mark hopes and fears
the wrinkles framing eyes and cheeks
tell tales of challenged years

Some faces are like stoic masks
they try to hide the pain
their gaze is downward or aside
they shun applause and fame

What secrets do some faces hide
beneath a wide brimmed hat
what deeds so cruel to be hid
what evil plots begat

Some visages are frozen cold
against harsh climes and lives
as if the northern wind still chills
their cheeks like piercing knives

The grooves and tributaries deep
can hardly be erased
no laughter and no stroke of luck
can blot what time has traced

Just like a land with hills and streams
is little changed by men
so is the face a timeless truth
to read now and again.