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.