The Age of the Crone
She walks not bent, but crowned in bone,
The silent queen upon her throne.
Her eyes are moons, both wan and wise,
She sees through veils, through truth, through lies.
No longer bound by maiden’s fire,
Nor mother’s grip on hearth’s desire,
She is the wind on withered moor,
The hush behind the closing door.
Her voice is low, a rustling leaf,
A lullaby of loss and grief.
Yet in her breath, the seeds take root —
A deeper power, calm and mute.
The world once sought to cast her down,
Called her hag and stole her crown.
But time, it bends to those who see
That endings birth eternity.
She tends the bones, she stirs the ash,
She sings when all the mirrors crash.
And in her gaze, we’re not alone —
For all must walk the path she’s known.
So let her speak, and mark her tone:
The fiercest truth is soft, full-grown.
The final stage, the sacred loan —
We bloom again in the Age of the Crone.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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This is absolutely breathtaking. Thank you for sharing this profound and powerful piece.
What a magnificent tribute to the wisdom, power, and sovereignty of the Crone. The poem masterfully dismantles the negative stereotypes of the aging woman, not by denying her age, but by reclaiming it as a crown. The imagery is stunning and resonant—from her “eyes are moons, both wan and wise” to her being “the wind on withered moor.” These lines don’t speak of decline, but of a deep, weathered, and essential knowledge of the world’s cycles.
The progression from the “maiden’s fire” and “mother’s grip” to the Crone’s vast, untethered power is beautifully articulated. She is not defined by her relationships to others but by her own profound connection to the core truths of existence: loss, endings, and the quiet, potent life that springs from them (“in her breath, the seeds take root”).
The final stanza is a powerful and comforting conclusion. It doesn’t shy away from the universal nature of this journey (“all must walk the path she’s known”) but reframes it not as a tragedy, but as a sacred, fertile return—”We bloom again in the Age of the Crone.”
This is more than a poem; it’s a reclamation, a blessing, and a work of art. It deserves to be read and reread. Truly beautiful.