Plahm constructs this poem almost entirely on sonic pleasure, building each stanza around a chain of “-inkle” rhymes that create an infectious, nursery-rhyme energy: twinkle, sprinkles, jingles, mingle, tickles, pickle, winkle, periwinkle, wrinkles, crinkle, sparkle. The sound pattern is the argument—by embedding “wrinkles” inside a cascade of joyful, musical words, the poem literally surrounds aging with delight. Each stanza associates the beloved with a different sensory gift: twinkling eyes, jingling voice, tickling touch, a playful wink. The structure builds from observation of the beloved’s qualities to the culminating embrace: “Bring on those wrinkles!” The shift in the final stanzas from playful rhyming to quieter reflection (“I appreciate the Lived”) marks a tonal deepening—the poem earns its wisdom by first earning the reader’s smile. The closing declaration, “There’s magic in those wrinkles,” lands with conviction precisely because the preceding stanzas have demonstrated that magic through their own exuberant musicality. The question mark in the title is itself a statement: wrinkles are not a problem to be solved but a question worth celebrating.

A charming, sonically driven poem that achieves its goal through sheer musicality. The “-inkle” rhyme scheme is the poem’s engine and its greatest asset—it creates momentum, levity, and a kind of auditory argument that wrinkles belong in the same family as twinkles, sparkles, and jingles. The poem reads aloud beautifully, and one can imagine it set to music or illustrated as a greeting card without losing its essential warmth. The playful invention of “makes my heart pickle” and the whimsical “pluck a periwinkle” demonstrate Plahm’s willingness to prioritize sound over literal sense, trusting that the feeling carries the meaning. The final three stanzas shift register effectively, moving from playfulness to genuine philosophical statement—”I appreciate the Lived” is a potent compression of the poem’s entire theme. Where the piece has limitations is in its depth of engagement with aging; the wrinkles remain celebratory abstractions rather than specific, observed details. A stanza naming particular wrinkles—laugh lines, crow’s feet, the crease of a habitual expression—might have grounded the celebration in more vivid reality. But the poem knows exactly what it wants to be: a musical valentine to the beauty of growing old together. On those terms, it succeeds with abundant charm.