The Crone (a Poem)

Her lips turn blue as she shivers with cold

and she wonders how she’s gotten so old.

 

Her hands are gnarled, they can’t knit anymore;

her shoulders cave in – they never get warm.

 

Folks bring her clothes: sweaters, shawls and gloves;

she knows that they try so hard out of love.

 

She can’t tell them she’s annoyed by these things,

it’s too much to do – the sorting, cleaning and folding.

 

She only needs the few layers that she wears day after day

and one set to change into when they smell of decay.

 

She eats her soup while drinking hot water or tea

to create the inner warmth that she desires to feel.

 

Unknown noises cause her fear and panic

Coming from inside or outside, making her manic.

 

The world has become a crazy and murderous place

she keeps out of sight, staying within her own space.

 

She would move too slow to outrun a criminal –

so she fervently prays and she reads her bible.

 

So far God has kept her safe and helps her be brave

but it’s getting harder for her to stay out of the grave.

 

Years have turned this kind woman into a crone,

and all she wants to do now, is to rest her old bones.