MIRROR OF LIFE

How many reflections
do I see in my mirror of life?

I look into the eyes
that look back at me,
and a distant reflection finds me.

Beyond the one standing here,
speaking my truth,
I glimpse the version that remains—
the one who existed
before the conditions of life,
before the carver made his marks.

Should I call them imperfections,
or are they impressions
of a blueprint held by God?

Each mark leaves something
for me to see,
something of the one
I have become,
something of the one
who was always there.

What do I make of the story
beneath each touch
of the sculptor’s knife?

I trace the lines,
wondering how each one
helped shape
the one standing before me.

I might explain what occurred
through my own understanding.
I might give each mark a name.

But the eyes that look back at me
can no longer unsee.