Roman Woman

She walks through the Forum, her stola flowing like soft marble in the breeze.
Vendors call out, the scent of olives and honeyed wine thick in the air.
She pauses to speak with a senator, her voice calm, her eyes sharp.
At home, mosaics gleam beneath her sandals, each tile a story.
She writes letters in careful Latin, sealing them with wax and pride.
Slaves move quietly around her, but her presence commands the space.
In the garden, she prays to Vesta, whispering hopes for her children’s future.
At the baths, she shares quiet gossip behind veils of rising steam.
Though history may forget her name, Rome pulses in her every step.