The Crone at Home

The Crone at Home

I rise when the light beyond my eyelids
beckons.
In golden earrings, silk, linen, 
and dancing shoes,
I feast on 
porridge and berries.

I turn to my scrying glass
to see 
the heart-breaks of the world.

I climb to my tower, 
grasp 
the treasured fleeces
I have been given, and earned,
and use my wheel
to spin my thread -
weft for my tiny moment
in the infinite tapestry.

Fingers red from spinning, I descend,
leaving my tower,
throwing my muddiness into the creek,
my restlessness into the lake.
I return
Wand calm.

In my caldron
I conjure up a bubbling broth -
an evening potent potion
and comforting charm.

By candlelight, I spell myself
into quietude.

After, I open my mind to
divining crystal stories
of others.

At the witching hour,
I wrap myself in my feather bed
and dream.


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