my body, the old woman

But my body, the old woman in me,

is tired of wandering,

she carries herself like a stunted,

misplaced, gnarled tulip tree,

she mumbles daily of water,

black soil,

and a hunger for unchanging spaces,

she wants to find a warm place

at the edge of an ancient and knowing river,

to soothe her roots and stretch her arms,

she wants her flowers to sprout from her

elbows for the hungry birds

who will dip their beaks lovingly

into her nectar filled blossoms,

she dreams, nightly,

of dancing in the wind

on stormy days,

with her leaves and soft branches

whipping around head,

in streaks of orange and green,

like a silk clad dancing girl.