If the woman of each age creates an image of herself,
Our aged woman would be a series of images.
She is that single woman prowling the streets
For the fulfillment of her dreams, that woman
With the two small children at her side, no
Ring on her wedded finger, or those divorce papers
Lodged in an uncharted place somewhere she cares not to look,
She is that broken woman, broken in
Spirit and broken in heart
She is that woman from the same rib of Adam,
That woman who desires and yearns all the same
She wakes in the morning, her many faces
And she blinks all the same
She searches her thoughts, pertaining to her direction
For the day or her direction for a lifetime
She is that woman, who never ages because,
Her age has been engraved in the sands of time,
Engraved in the Earth’s dirt and engraved in
The air we breathe
She moves about her day in search of something
Her heart is always in search of something
Or another
She draws in every breath, slow and steadily before she starts her day
There are decisions to be made
There is yet her whole life to live.