Is this the shape of wisdom?
Key turning in a lock just so,
The smell of bread rising
In warm kitchen air,
Yellowed root of a tooth
By just that name;
Accumulation of self-understanding
In the pages of too many journals?
Is this the shape of wisdom?
One more framed diploma
Next to a graduation portrait,
Opening your boundaries to one
Closing them to another,
Six-digit figure denoting
The net worth of an IRA,
Frozen remains of the top layer
Of a 42-year-old wedding cake?
Perhaps wisdom is the softening lines
And round angling planes of the reflection
That stares back at you in the silvered glass.
Each morning and each evening
Misting the mirror with soft
Billowing breath of self-compassion.
Beth Firestein