The Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone

The Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone

My daughter slammed the door on death
when he came calling last spring

But even before and definitely since,
she has flirted with his traitor’s kiss.
how sweet the relief, a promise kept,
packaged in a final breath.

So we delivered her on metal wings
where mountains sing and mud the sky,
where fields glow amber and trees bleed fire,
the beauty of a summer dying.

The three goddesses of the moon -
the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone -
met our shadows on the track.
Familiar faces from the past,
they snipped the cord on her first night.
“love is a sacrifice,” they cried.

I always knew they would come back.

“the thirtieth, the fifteenth
and the first,” they cooed, “play the tune that leads her path.”

So when the waxen sphere at last
Hung low above the mile-high room
My daughter took the wheel so fast
and left me childless in a lonely noon
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