Ringing

Trees are measured by the rings of bark.  Hair by inches.  Roads by miles.  Children by months or years.  Or worse, academic achievement.

I think my growth is more vague than years, far more obscure.  I have wiry gray hair sprouting at the roots, and my skin has undergone the change of time, losing the supple smoothness of a young adult, to the brittle, spotty canvas that colors me now.  I love my crows feet, though.  I believe they are the relics of the laughter that carved them there.

I feel my growth is like the rings in a tree.  Internal, private, but there nonetheless.  Fires have left scars, and strong winds have twisted the limbs, but despite the mess, the growth continues from the inside out, shaping through the damage a thing that is knotted, crippled, and breathing, inhaling and metabolizing the smallest bit of light in the hopes that there, in the deepest darkness, form the sprouts of green and radiant life.