When women age
We become Crones,
Silver witches who have
Learned to carry lines on our eyes,
Grooves in our skin,
Quieter temperaments
Silenced by glasses of wine.
We lose track of time.

We watch from distances
As old men chase younger versions,
Cease to notice us and so
When women age
We learn solitude,
Engraved by nights with candles and
Cookbooks holding the echoes
Of hungry children home from school.

When women age
We write our pain
In torn journals,
Leaving words behind
Dripped with the fear of being forgotten;
Keep dreams in small boxes,
Because we still believe
We can be a rock star.

When women age,
We learn acceptance,
no matter how much we love
Reciprocation isn’t guaranteed,
And breath isn’t promised,
Nights become more sleepless
As we sew together the pieces
Gathered from years of aching.

When women age
We become a poster
For anti-wrinkle cream,
Thick elastic waistbands
And calloused hands,
Absent glances
And fewer chances to fall in love,
Empty wombs,
And the realization
of missed opportunities.

When women age
We learn that
Laughing with a sisterhood can
Make up for lonely, empty beds, and
Conversations held over shot glasses,
Fresh baked bread
And meals cooked with secrets
Leave us
Unaware of trivial things
Like what other people think
About our existence.

When women age,
We become road signs
Frightening young women
Because wisdom is a threat
Like grey hair,
Skin heavy from gravity
And split hearts.

Yet we age
And we still love
Because when women age,
We understand that
Skyclad dancing is energy
And our pubis is extraordinary,
Our stomachs bulge
Because we created life,
And age becomes a mere digit
Represented by words and acronyms
Rolling off the tongues of young men
Unable to forget the taste
Of their mother’s breast.

We smile knowingly
As time has taught us,
We sigh when no one is listening,
Curled up inside covers,
like ancient weeping willows
Who will wait centuries
For a human to notice
That she has stories to tell.

When women age
We become invisible.
Ghosts walking over hills,
We are mirages;
Porcelain masks
With chipped edges.
Hanging on walls
And rarely worn,
We learn to submerge
Into the deepness of sleep
Somewhere in the ocean
Where youthfulness doesn’t exist
Because skeletons live for centuries.

For more self-study, The Urban Howl recommends Courage: The Joy of Living Dangerously.

Sip a little more:

Table For One — I May Be Alone But I Am Not Lonely

Outside The Village Walls: Re-Wilding The Feminine Psyche

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” – Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar . . . #wakeupanddream #thebelljar #erinvanvuren


  1. Beautiful. Amazingly accurate and I am still a young woman ans think all these thoughts as I see wise woman. Thank you.

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