She is made from countless years of defying patriarchy,
Strengthened by grief,
Made wiser by betrayal.
Injustice, bullying, rape, plunder, gaslighting, lying, manipulation of truth.
These are tools of colonialists, the puffy white men who gloat over short-term acquisitions,
Momentary victories at the cost of the earth and her people.
The crone’s eyes see into the deep past and the enlightened future.
She is an expression of the endless cord of nourishment that is her alignment.
The crone waits patiently in the cave of humanity,
Drinking our tears,
Praying our prayers.
Dictators and tyrants, and the women who hold their hands and take their arms, are
Waxy, synthetic, plasticene models of loss,
Their unmasked flesh peeling from the acid of falsity.
The Crone of Gethsemane sees that those who are sleeping now will awaken.
She prays for this and accelerates time.
Though bent in agony, she is born to bleed and nourish the earth.
She alone knows the timing of the ultimate resurrection.
