The Furrow

Her face in the photograph,

younger. The light, too bright.

She was talking, I think, a half

smile. But there, still, in plain sight.

The line. A single, small ravine.

Between her brows, a little stitch

of worry, or something unseen.

A private, tiny hitch.

I look closer. Even then.

Before me, before everything.

It was carved. By what, and when?

A premature, quiet thing.

It never smoothed out. Not quite.

Even now, when she laughs,

it sits there, a dark, faint light.

A quiet truth she telegraphs.