Wrinkles

Wrinkles
A poem inspired by 'A child said, 'What is the grass?' by Walt Whitman

Said the young boy to the old man: "Sir, just how old are you?"
"Why I'm 94 years old," the old man replied.
The young boy gawked at each wrinkle in the man's languid, gaunt face.
Each onion-tainted ,corrugated piece of skin rich with crevices, cavities, and craters.

How do old men get so wrinkly?
Perhaps it is the result of a boisterous childhood. 
Could it be due to such things as cool, wet grass and soft, moist mud on tiny fingers?
The slimy bellies of worms that weave their way through the jubilant sweat.
Maybe it is the bedtime stories that drip into the ears ecstasy riddled fantasies.
Though, I suppose the irresistible, sweet nothings whispered by a woman draw wrinkles with an unsteady hand on the unprepared skin of a young man, too.

Could it be that the ebony guns in war shoot not only their foe, but their host, too?
A backfire that is arguably most devastating.
War builds a barricade over the heart and poisons the mind with black, tarry memories that are scorched into the gelatinous, gray brain.
How fitting then, that children are born bombs of innocence and an anecdote that penetrates deep into the soul of a withered and wan man.

The young boy now admires a canyon, in awe of the cavernous stratums that have been etched into the sides.
The young boy asks, "Canyon, how did you get so wrinkly?"
Off in the distance, an eagle shrieks in reply, a spokesman for the monstrous crater on Earth's jarring skin.
The trembling river below boasts a reply too, and so do the trees as they quiver their branches, making the leaves dance like puppets.

It is a concoction of amiable retaliations.
So, in all, perhaps the canyon and the old man are content with their wrinkles.
For an old man without wrinkles is a man who has not felt.
And a smooth canyon is an Earth left behind in history.