The Crone Goddess

The Crone sits in Her rocking chair
And roasts the chestnuts on the coals.
Outside, December branches bear
A coat of frost in curling scrolls.

She frightens children with Her eyes
And thumps Her cane, a solemn beat –
But ah, Her words are gentle, wise,
A waning crescent at Her feet.

Her death draws near; She knows it’s so,
But does not fear what it will bring
For underneath the fallen snow,
The tulip bulbs are dreaming spring.

Elizabeth Barrette