Rorrim

I see you out there
peering in occasionally.
Has something been lost?
Think it's hidden in here?

The same blue eyes
look for answers as seen
for three score and three:
gentle, curious, wild.

The years of seeking
have engraved lines,
expressing endurance
while exploring Maya.

Hair, born blond, turned
dark brown by age one,
has become mostly all salt
yet still hot with pepper.

That mouth, from which
come declarations of proof
that your client is the one
to whom the rights belong,

that mouth looks as soft
as when you discovered
sweetness in the magic
of first love's tender kiss.

Those ears are clogged
with hair but hear the cries
of victims everywhere,
though cannot rescue all.

That ski slope nose, where
loving wife tosses her smile,
still smells out the rat
in opponents' plausible alibis.

Perhaps a groan lamenting
a body that's grown round;
it's merely death's intimation
for when it's time for last call.

Have you found whatever
was thought to be lost?
Good, for now you know
it's been here all along.