The lines on her face

They be storytellers

Each with their own voice

A wrinkle, a page

Providing a resting place for the dust of the day

Hidden among the sun-taxed maculas

And if you ask her 

She won't tell

Go ask her storytellers

They will tell

On her regal, pruned face

Her son waves a salute

Her daughter's asleep after labor

Her husband--

--well, he's long gone