Just as all things
wrinkles have a secret life.
They multiply in drawers,
in closets,
on bedsheets,
on faces,
and dry leaves—
across time.
Wrinkles live in old letters,
creased by longing—
in the folds of maps
where the journey changed direction.
Even the surface of a pond wrinkles
when the wind writes its name.
They soften with movement,
with sunlight, with joy,
with the warmth of a caress,
guiding them onto a single plane—
on linen they yield
to the searing breath
of an iron sighing steam.
On water, they smooth
like glass when the wind calms.
Wrinkles contract and release
like a heart beating,
like a bellows fanning flames,
like hands clasping and letting go.
Wrinkles disappear and reappear,
and sometimes
come to stay
in the thoughtful furrow of your brow—
or they deepen like moonbeams
that have traced the vectors of light
twinkling in your eyes
again and again.
Where there is life
there are wrinkles—
on faces, on linens,
on the skin of the earth,
and on water,
moving of their own volition
in a dance
with time, movement, wind,
light, heat, and moisture...
—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2015)
