New Poem: Old Road

It was not long ago I wore

my hair in braids

like twisted rivers falling softly over my shoulders,

or smooth vines held in place with green satin ribbons.

No longer a child, I’m too old to wear braids now

too old to wear above-the-knee-wrap-around-silk-skirts and 

French-cut-bathing-suits, or

form-fitted-knit-dresses that reveal every imperfect curve.

The young ones no longer look me in the eye or hip

perhaps the swing is gone, they see no use? though

I pay my taxes faithfully-feed-the-chickadees that flock the trees,

rub away enduring dust

cook a meal they hastily consume then with a tart shove, push themselves 

away from the table. 

They don’t see me walking the old dirt road

or the deep lines of my forehead covered in a hat made of spun llama

soft and supple as new lamb

To them life is a horse race.

my mother used to say wear your hair piled up high,

she liked it that way 

but no, I’ll wear braids again at the end of the road when 

the holy-bound dream is to die-young-of-old-age.