There once was a mirror, all splattered with cracks,
With wrinkles and ripples and crinkles and tracks.
But the old man, he smiled, and he paid it no mind,
For the cracks told a story—the best kind you’ll find.
Though he creaked when he bent and he groaned when he rose,
Though his knees and his elbows had bumps on their toes,
He grinned at that mirror, from ear tip to ear,
For he saw not the cracks, but the life drawing near.
Then up on his lap with a giggle and squeal,
His granddaughter bounced like a bright spinning wheel.
She hugged him so tight, he could hardly just stand,
But oh, what a feeling to hold in his hand.
Each wrinkle, each line, each furrow and seam,
Was stitched by the laughter, the tears, and the dream.
God painted his portrait with patience and grace,
And love drew the lines that danced on his face.
He leaned to the mirror, inspecting each crease,
And found, to his joy, an eternal peace.
For cracks in the glass and the lines on his skin—
Were the marks of the love that had lived deep within.
