The secret life of wrinkles

 

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)