LOVELY OLD CRONES
live across the creek
appearing only in the Fall,
when their clothes have fallen around their knees
and they become naked, all.
Nine old crones have dug their roots
into the leafy loam;
planted firmly on the edge, their boots
have found a home.
Refractured light of winter’s day
reveals translucent bones;
brittle, broken by decay
I hear the silent groans.
Glory gone and faded now
their youth renewed in Spring
verdant leaves will return somehow
since they’ve made this offering.
S.M. Conner
11/15/11
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