Old women are forgotten wombs
whose graceless bodies have fed the world,
then been sent to sit in its shadows...
not quite seen, unacknowledged
and without nurture.
Old women are crucified with the nails
of oppression and poverty.
Invisibility swallows them when
age freckles out-number the fresh
patches of youth.
Old women have scarred and calloused
knees from kneeling in submission to
lesser minds that felt bigger for the
looking down.
A rosary of sorrows is strung through
the weary fingers of old women.
They are hung on the crucifix of youth
and beauty to wither into dust.
Old women have crabbed and ruined toes
from shoes worn too long - that a child
might have new ones.
Alone in cubicles or corners, frayed photos
beneath their coats, old women remember
children that have long forgotten them.
Old women do not seek a man’s arms...
for that is not a refuge, but a honeyed trap
where souls are flayed and burned.
Old women talk to themselves because
no one else has ears to hear, or words to share.
Even their echoes are faint and whispered.
Such wondrous minds...libraries of living life,
vision and experience...left untouched because
they are not behind a pretty face.
Behold the woman....she is a wealth of wisdom
and power, beauty and courage - to those
wise enough to touch her power.
Her reckoning will come...
Until then - she endures.