Poem Eighteen - Old

I watch the ladies slowly move, Holding on to each other's arms, White hair gleaming, Lipstick carefully applied. Sweaters in May cover arms No longer strong. Hands veined in blue, Those hands gnarled and clawed. I complete my pitiless appraisal  At their wrinkled faces. I am astonished at their clear gaze. Wise eyes,no longer afraid, as I am, Of being old.