When silver threads crown the darkened braid,
and time walks slow beside the hearth’s last flame,
the Crone steps forth, unafraid—
no longer maiden, mother, or the same.
Her eyes have seen the moon unmask
its endless faces, wax and wane.
She knows that endings are but tasks
the soul must do to grow again.
She gathers all her former names,
the laughter, pain, the loss, the art—
and weaves them into sacred flames
to light the corridors of heart.
No longer bound by need or chase,
she moves like wind through autumn’s bone,
each step a prayer, each breath a grace—
the world itself becomes her throne.
So let the Crone within arise,
with wrinkled hands and ageless eyes;
for she is night, and peace, and dawn—
the wisdom left when all else’s gone.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
Discover more from Writing Through the Soul
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
