In the mirror, reflections play,
A tapestry of lines in a grand display.
Each wrinkle a story, each crease a tale,
Of laughter and joy that never grows stale.

Oh, the knees that creak like ancient doors,
Yet they dance to tunes of youthful scores.
Hair may silver, but eyes still gleam,
In this comedic aging dream.

Glasses perched upon the nose,
To read the menu or watch the shows.
But who needs perfect sight or sound,
When humor in aging can still be found?

Embrace the gray, the charming grace,
In every giggle, find your place.
For growing old is a funny art,
Where laughter keeps a youthful heart.