Chronology of a Crone

Today has been my special day since I first learned it was my birthday. I thank God for the gifts in my life. I honor myself for the wisdom I have attained, and the growth I have before me. I have gorgeous red and purple-tiger roses blooming for this special day in November. I also had the most monster sycamore leaf drop into the birdbath and I'll treat you to that.
I’ll offer you to a poem about my life.

Chronology of a Crone

The woman—
who hides her gray hair under a blond rinse
—is not aged.

In her lives the young girl laughing in 1963,
when she was all of nine, before the bloody pink suit.
In her is the teen with solemn eyes. Alive and well in her
is the young woman in black robes and mortarboard,
smiling wide with a degree of joy she earned herself,
In her, the bride with wide hopes.
In her too, the mother with child.

A parade of photographs marches around the bed,
telling the story of her long life. This gift
from her mother captures the deep, sweet roots
that ground her in the earth of herself.

The passage of time has smoothed her rough edges,
leaving behind the tracks of the years in her eyes.
You are a crone now, says her masseuse, kneading
the network of aches that lives in her shoulders.
You are the wisewoman who has found the answers
she sought. Lord knows where the diploma is.
The marriage is over, but the hopes remain.

The woman—
who has grown strong, and weathered many storms
—still dances.
She hears the music of the seasons
and she raises her arms high above her golden head.
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God bless your day, my beautiful people in the blogosphere.