Aging goddesses in my heart

“How old would you be if you didn’t know your age.” 
Golda Meir

A dear friend’s mother died this week. She was ninety-five. I only met her one time, but I heard she had a good long life.

She lived in the retirement home where another friend’s ninety-three-year-old mother lives. My aunt lives there too. She’s going on ninety-eight. And I still see her as the beauty she was in her thirties, forties, and fifties.

I wrote the poems for Paul Blieden’s book of photography, The Emerging Goddess. I dedicate this poem to these ladies. They are in my heart.

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.