grey grey hair

Every morning, as the first light of dawn
Caressed the world outside his window,
He would sit by the aged oak dresser,

With the meticulousness of a cartographer
Charting unknown lands,
He would count each strand of grey hair,
Murmuring softly to himself.

"One for the love that blossomed
In the spring of my youth,

Two for the children that graced my life,"
He would begin, his voice a tender echo
In the solitude of his room.

As the sun climbed higher,
Casting a golden glow upon the walls
Adorned with photographs of days gone by,
He continued his daily ritual.

"Three for the journeys that took me
Beyond the horizon,
Four for the hardships that taught me resilience."

The strands of grey multiplied
With the passing years,

Each one a marker of time's relentless march.
Yet, to him, they were more than just signs of aging;
They were the threads that wove the rich tapestry
Of his existence.

"Five for the friends who stood by me,
Six for the farewells that weighed heavy on my heart,"
He counted, his hands trembling slightly
With the weight of memories.

By noon, the count would be complete,
And he would sit back, a soft smile playing on his lips.
In every silver filament, he found a piece of his story,
A fragment of the universe he had lived.

And as the evening drew near,
With the sky painted in hues of twilight,
He would gaze at his reflection—

A constellation of experiences etched into the lines of his face,
Each grey hair a star shining with the light
Of a life fully lived.