Wild Old Woman

She was light on her feet  
As a cat, even in stilletos,
Daintily slipping through  
Without a sound.
 
Her gaze was that  
Of a wild woman,
Carrying the ever present  
Tinkling of something dangerous
Hidden ever so carefully
Behind the poise and grace  
Of a lady.  

Her hair nearly  
Touched the ground,
As if Rapunzel
Had been absorbed  
By the witch.

Freely hanging locks
were a cloak of vines
trailing behind her.
They seemed to  
Hold each one  
Of the stories she had  
To tell, tangible as if  
The very air around her  
Shifted to present  
Her energy to the world.  
 
Every step she took  
Seemed to say  
I am Woman
And I am divine