the maiden the mother the crone

the deepest waters run the stillest in their depths
 she learned their language at an early age
    tossed through waves, bathed in tides
 the sun treated her kindly, tickled her skin
 freckles doting on her like a grandmother
she entrusted her being to the way of life
    and when she spread her arms into the grass
  they gave bountifully, singing with her

       what you give out will always come back
    and she gave with fervor, her love strong
           her belief unshakable
        she gave her heart and expected nothing back
    She took notice.

clandestine hut, tailored to her soul rather than her hands
    bundles of sage dangled where the cats played
                   a comely face tread the hollow of the room
        fire lit, eternally bathing her feet in warmth
    newly finished runes etched with care
           wooden floor to hold their magic
      dried bones and crushed leaves, satchel of sunflowers

     in the house of the mother, you are welcome;
  the earth is robust here, the waters are demure
           the moon gives herself freely, with abandon
     while the skies embrace her fiercely
              she knows the love of the world, and with it

             She grows.

the waxing moon tugs her
       ripening her soul and mind, her body ready to gambol
    where she came from is not far from where she went
               and her daughters live among the woods,
       caretakers of their home
            prodigious in their own rights, sailing the love of the maiden
      while the crone watches over them

  you cannot fish an empty lake, nor sort herbs in a dry garden
        there was nothing the sea’s moon hadn’t taught her;
                   leathers hung in the corners, waiting for new life
           to be gifted to Her, when she needed them

   the love she carried was not of small proportions
            and it was not a light burden to bear
        but the only ones who called it a burden
              were the ones who fished the empty lakes,
              who farmed the dry gardens.


7 responses to “the maiden the mother the crone”

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