This one is a longish one.

Winter Crone

Outside,
in the waning light of gloaming
the trees stir,
touched by the windy fingers
of an approaching
late winter storm.

"Rain"
the Storm whispers.

Oh how welcome that would be - water.

Water.
Winter.

For some reason I find myself contemplating
the Crone
and
Women's Blood Mysteries.

"Contemplation,"
yes,
this is a good description.
It seems that I can only
contemplate
these Mysteries,
that I can only know them as one who studies geography,
but has never stood
upon the mountain.

All of my "rites-of-passage" are external.
I must create them,
or be acted upon by the outer world.
Unless my body is
marked
there is no outward evidence of what
I have passed through.
Even in co-creating new life
my body remains

untouched.

The notion of
"flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood"
seems more an idea than an experience.
Perhaps this is why men
are so much better at killing
than women are.

Yet,
I am born of woman,
flesh of her flesh,
blood or her blood,
and within me the echo of
her mystery
lives.

The rain has turned to snow.
I bow before the chilling winter's breath,
as the trees bow,
draped in the weight of softness.

Winter.
A time of bending.
Those bent beyond endurance
lie broken
and fading
beneath the mounting whiteness,
to be revealed in the spring
as bones.

It is not surprising that my thoughts
turn towards the crone.

Yes,
I am born of woman,
flesh of Her flesh,
blood of Her blood,
and within me the echo of
Her mystery
lives.

Tell me a story,
please,
Grandmother.

It is warm here by the fire,
and I am ready to listen.

©David M. Pierce, 1994