THE WOMEN gather under the trees.
They bring gifts, food, and chairs.
They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,
Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.
And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.
Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,
shifting aside their robes to expose
missing limbs and gaping wounds.
The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,
eyes straining, and they chant,
"That is lovely, that is good,"
and the wounds stop weeping,
and they melt into scars,
silvery and light and beautiful.
Then the women lean back and laugh,
and they stretch, sensual and fierce,
like cats in the sun.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Crone Song

Crones are wonderful.
Crones are wise.
They look at the world
through ancient eyes.
Through ancient eyes
that have seen it all,
the comings and goings,
the rise and the fall.
The rise and the fall
of their chests as they breathe
and the tears in their eyes
when it’s time to grieve.
When it’s time to grieve,
only they can say.
That has to be
the price they pay.
The price they pay,
with aching bones
and broken hearts,
those wonderful Crones.
Those wonderful Crones
who show us the way
to cherish ourselves
and live each day.
--Sappho
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