At The Age of Wisdom
At The Age of Wisdom
Hair as silver as Dumbeldore's beard
The bags under her eyes as droopy
As her skin's many hanging layers.
The distressed lines on her forehead
Take nothing away
From that ethereal exterior.
Her wisdom overflows in her bones
Soft and gentle
From years of being strong.
Her clothes loose around
Her fragile human sack,
Which once fit her
perfectly around every curve.
The chic saree clad woman on the shelf,
Smiles red in the black and white world;
Her eyes,
Northern stars in the black sky.
She looks up too often
Squinting for the light,
Her wrinkled eyes
Are too tired to find.
Often she winces aloud,
Proclaiming to God
She'll die.
Not sure if God agrees
'Cause at ninety five.
She is still alive.