Wrinkles are a map,

A weathered one, weathered as only time can do,

The miniature hills and valleys themselves a journey

Reflecting the path of their wearer

Through so many days and days

And some too from the sunshine that fell on an unhatted noggin

Turning hair golden, scorching ears and noses.

I would like to be that sunshine

Beating down on the heads of the unwitting

Turning their faces brown and red

Sweeping over the earth in waves

Returning each day anew

To wrinkle up the world,

To draw new maps on the faces of the creatures below.