Ode to the Crone
You are sour like milk left too long on the table.
It was never your choice or doing
how hurricanes battered the walls of your garden
until it caved in on itself.
You are sunlight held captive in the abyss
of waiting. A thirsting drunk who overstayed
the vacuous heat of a solitary desert.
Now rain descends from heaven, but
your seed too dry to sprout, slowly decays
in its birth tomb.
There is no turning back. The mystery
of time a one-way climbing mountain
up to the sky, then down again
by the other side into hollow ground,
a lair of ravenous tigers, a den of thieves
hiding in ambush, with stench, howls, shrieks
and coos of seduction, tornados swirling
in the distance threatening innocence
into the vortex of chaos, leaving shambles
profusely scattered in a junkyard
of heavy dust that covers and shrouds
your escape, like a prisoner doomed
to indeterminate confinement
with critical eyes peering in judgment
from their dark robes.
Yet, there is this place where your soul breathes
and sings in a forest of healing and honey bees.
Where rays of light filter through the branches
and insect bird tree frog orchestras
lift away the fog. A wonderland of eternal spring
that secretly lives within your silence,
composing songs that play original melodies
for lovers who join each other in the dance.
This place, invisible, cannot be coaxed from hiding
or exposed by the multitude of rambling thoughts
that crowd its sweetness with waves of mundanities.
Only a real key of hopes and dreams opens this door,
casting spells for the living with swords of fire
that pierce and release the layers of delicate veils
to fly free in the wind.
© Sandra Maria Esteves. Published by permission in Centro Voices on 10 April 2015.