Maiden Mother Crone

a pail carried from the well turning with the ides gifted to the boughs and branches lone every joyful dawn every drowning morn blooming in the warm buried in the storm speaking soft and low say it to me slow there’s only so much time a mind can hold woven from the old drifting through the fold maiden mother crone you knit me thread spun and running red metered in the dark swaying with wax and wane of time every quiet dusk every blade to rust fading of the light drifting into night speaking soft and low say it to me slow there’s only so much time a mind can hold woven from the old stretched across the fold maiden mother crone you knit us all woven from the old heavy as the stone the water from the well is clear and cold drifting through the fold heavy as the stone there’s only so much life a thread can hold