She is Crone

she moves with care now,
her limbs aching with each step
eyes shining in the darkness.
now, she is old, old as time,
beckoned by the gods,
needed by so many.
they call upon her now
to birth their babes,
lay out their dead.
a-night, they leave her solitary
in her home, wary of angering
this old, old soul
who has such knowledge in her
that it carves upon her face
deep and careless lines.
for pain, they need her,
fearful of its claws
they beg for aid
and always and anon she answers
she is all three, maiden, mother,
and, now, as aged as the Goddess
that she smiles upon in the night.
she is the centre,
the hub of things.
her travels now are done,
and yet she stays,
carven, almost, in stone,
serene in knowing
all is well.
she is Crone.
Copyright 2007 by Sama