A beard is like an age old friend;
One both constant yet forgotten.
Mine own shades himself like autumn;
Brown with reds to speckle and blend.
And yet, he is also like me.
Once, he was a spry and young thing,
Until life showed what it had to bring.
Now we all know what he can be.
But there is still time for a change.
Shaved, he can be reborn anew,
To show the world what he can do;
Prove nothing to be out of range.
Or, he can sit around and gray,
And watch his strength begin to wane.
To fester his own life’s disdain.
Until white winter comes to say:
“Let me take these hard years from you.
No more kin, and much less than kind.
With me, on your journey you’ll find
The sleep you’ve wished for to be true”
A good friend would not let this pass,
He would grasp the bristles of life,
Like a beard in moments of strife,
And show he had more line to cast.
I recently became able to grow a (small) beard, and my mother challenged me to write a poem about it. So I did. Let me know what you think! It’s a little weird, I know.