Mirror mirror on the wall

Dear mirror mirror sitting on the wall
who is the fairest of them all,
rather what is that face looking back at me?

Patches of freckles, born from the sun,
scattered over a defiant nose, branches
of eyebrows framing, bending like a dancer's
back, over the round brown black eyes.
Those eyes, I stare into them as they stare back,
what do you see in the depths of black iris?

Hiding beneath, the lowest level, sits a charcoal pot
of love gone abused, for the person who once loved
burnt the pot. The pot slowly fades, the memories
difficult to recall as it's pushed deeper and deeper,
hoped to disappear, to drown, but it will not ever
forever be gone for it has made its mark.

Regrowing, on the surface of those eyes,
is a tiny garden of green, blades of grass sprouting,
watered by the gallons, fertilized by the thirst
for life. It's the hope, that I recognize,
it's the defiance to defeat, that calls me home.
Those eyes may stumble over a rock,
glance and see a tornado engulf, winding up
to take her away, but they run. They eat the ground
in stride, muscles gleaming from the sweat,
but always, always going and always trying.