Age grew and sharpened like a pebble,
too small to locate in a shoe.
Her heart was singing treble
but bass notes kept leaking through.

Some days she felt like a hyena,
laughed-at and maligned.
Other days were serener,
but take your freaking cheese and wine.

Why am I not wise? she asked herself.
What have I learned? Anything at all?
Why can’t I just lie back on the shelf
where society wants me to stall?

Who am I these days, anyway?
I used to walk fast and look smooth.
Who belongs to this wrinkled face?
Where did I misplace my youth?

Back from volunteering, she checks her mirror
and notices a rather new her.
Her smile and wink are much clearer.
She could positively purr.

Her hair is definitely silver.
Her humor comes back with a snap.
No way will she cry into her pillow
when her punch-lines are still drawing laughs!

In a flash, she is busy and engaged.
Literally and figuratively, a woman of her age.

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, Spring, 2004