she’s old
and rotting quickly,
each wrinkle on
her silvery black face
tells tales of years
stacked upon years,
tears piled on tears
joy and pain
toil and bitter rain

but behind her dark
Colombian folds
drooped eye bags
ash-gray prickly hair
shriveled lips crumbled
upon sour memories
and heavenly aged thoughts,
I see a beautiful woman I don’t know
happy to wake and dress
and brush her brittle grays
a smile on rustic lips
as she drapes faded pearls
over slumped shoulders
adorning her leathery brown neck
with jewels just like
rich white women wear up north.

©Wilson Santos

*I took this photo of this beautiful woman while on vacation in Colombia in 2013. She inspired this poem.