Meeting the Crone in the Early Morning

by Geraldine Cannon

I bow to this wise old woman
because I must.
Seeing something familiar in her
knowing reach into the unknown.
It is stored within the marrow.
It is ossified in bone.
I bow to this wise old woman
with winter's face,
her eyes squinched tight
in this half light, she walks,
an ancient gnarly limb she holds
to rhythmically extend her own.
I bow to this wise old woman
out of respect.
Secretly treasuring the knowledge
that my breasts will produce milk,
and my blood still flows well
from the hidden mother zone.
I bow to this wise old woman
who is coming
slowly and surely down this road,
and she is no more a stranger to me
than the face I see in the mirror
in the wavy light of dawn.

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