How come
                      that I can  watch
                      a turtle unfold its neck
                      and marvel
                      at the perfection
                      and the beauty,

                      How come
                      I can  tenderly
                      rejoice
                      at the wrinkled
                      clownish face
                      of a gorilla,

                      yet,  observing
                      the neck folds
                      of women my age,
                      pampering themselves
                      in the temples of beauty,
                      and staring
                      at my face
                      as it recedes
                      in the infinity of the mirrored
                      reflections,
                      morphing into the form
                      of my aunts and my mother,
                      I am hard put
                      to conjure joy?

                      I have to
                      breath in
                      and breath out
                      in a deep yogic breath
                      and relax
                      the reins of thought,
                      for the scales
                      to fall from my eyes,
                      to be able to see
                      the joyous glory,
                      that passeth all understanding,
                      shining  triumphant
                      through  all live forms,
                      aged and young.