It happens in a surprising instant

the woman with the purple dress

passing the iron weed

notices its almost matching hue

and for just about five seconds

she pauses

like the gap

between a mediative breath

that little place

on the soul of the foot

that passes gradually

into the Earth.

Then like a heaving sigh

she finds her footing

down the hill

where time has caught up with her

and she is no longer

a girl

but worn and wrinkled

in the garments

of tomorrow.