Aging Goddesses

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.