She wore a chignon in her hair
pulling it tightly from her face
Aragon’s image, caressed by time
the walking ghost of Isabella.
She moved along with quiet grace
each motion filled with dignity
usually found in royalty
yet easily and naturally.
Watching closely one could see
the aura that surrounded her;
stepping aside as she approached
making a way for her to pass.
Briefly thought of her as young
mantilla in hair, black fan in hand
entering the ball with confidence
all eyes upon a woman of substance.
Then she was gone on the I.R.T.
moving north to Spanish Harlem
stared at me through the closing doors;
Yes, I am everything you see.