I think it makes sense to post a poem about age, having just celebrated a birthday. This is one of a series I wrote for The Emerging Goddess, to accompany Paul Blieden's beautiful photography.
Aging
Goddesses
The crones – our mothers, grandmothers,
aunts, old friends, and teachers –
walk arm in arm in pairs
each one supporting the other
on the old cobble-stoned streets.
They are squat, stout
with veiny legs and thick ankles,
their bare feet in flat sandals
showing jagged toenails
or clothed in thick hose
and wide oxfords.
Some move slowly
barely able to walk,
clutching each other for support.
They are perfectly coifed.
Their hair short and bleached
hides their age
but not too much.
They wear suits
with skirts always below their knees.
Jeans just don’t do.
They talk as they walk
closely together.
Almost in a whisper
they solve the world’s problems,
impart their age-old wisdom
or decide what they’ll cook for dinner.
They wear their age
as an example.
Softly, simply, elegantly
they are our muse.
They don’t hide
but rejoice in their age
They thrive in their togetherness.
That’s what counts.
They aren’t alone as they walk
They walk together
as we follow behind.
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