A la Anciana

The viejita climbs the cobbled street
of Temezcuitate with quiet steps,
pecking at time with tiny, black-shoed feet.
She plaits a path across the crooked space,
between the houses’ walls of pink and white,
of green and blue. She weaves a line of grace
and carries knowing on her aged back,
her shoulders folded over memories deep.
The callejón, the plaster walls have cracked
under the weight of so much past. And yet
her bird-bones hold. An orange rebozo flames
across her back, around her arms and chest.
She grasps the silkened cotton at her heart,
holding the comfort of tradition close
with gnarled hands that also know the part
of letting go. Her eyes pour out a gaze
that barely sees, but pulls the world in.
The dark eyes still draw strands from memory’s haze.
Silver hair with streaks of white, it folds
behind her face into a feathered braid
that neatly falls across her back, and holds.
Her brown face opens to the warming light.
She knows the sun, the sky. And as she rises
up the street, in time, she’s taking flight.