Today's prompt was to write a self portrait in poem. I did two.

I

I am as I have akways been,
one who jumps at sudden noises,
colors in crayon and word,
runs out to catch the moonrise,
likes fresh air, lemons, ginger
champions underdogs, stays
quiet until challenged, fierce
under threat, tenacious,
takes refuge in dawn, dusk,
mist, lives between worlds,
loves hard, grieves quietly,
picks up pebbles, feathers,
hopes as much as I fear.

Miscalled

People look at my long faded hair,
my shawls and bare legs and they
label me aging hippie. Wrong.

Aging, technically, yes, of course.
Every year is a year I've lived.
Sometimes my knees ache. .
I know I am past midpoint,
focus on legacy not future.
but aging isn't an important
part of my self image.

Not a hippie ever, good girl who
saved sex for husbands and never
dropped acid, studied hard, cleaned
up after demonstrations, was
embarrassed by drunks and pot heads.


But I am myself, a woman who likes shawls,
whose husband finds long hair sexy, who
has left leaning politics. Myself, still emerging.