Park Bench Crone
So there she is, a park bench crone, mother of the listless,
head bowed, caught between dark and light I sense her
There she is, she’s grown beyond root and branch,
at peace despite the incontinence of an unlooked for
And there I am,
of a sudden snagged by her knurled spell
as if she were the Virgin Mary, and I
a stumbling beast wandering through her stable.
“Look at the sky.” She wheezes
not looking upon me.
It is hard to hold up my cripple-necked creature,
to force my knotted spirit to blunder
up into the muddy air;
low clouds press shut, pewter trap doors
forming a sunken roof.
I want to keep my silence
let only my hot breath snort through stupefied nostrils
but there, on her creaky bench a crone radiates,
as a young girl would
holding her newborn joyfully up to the heavens.
I surface, my mood rocketing upwards
to a roofless place where the ages, are all still babes
rocking in a shining crib.
Shoulders back and head high I stroll past her.
“Good morrow mother,” I say with a light-head
(the archaic phrase seems appropriate, as if now
were already tomorrow).
“Good morrow good beast, will you witness”?
“I shall wise crone,” I reply,
“for am I not almost an angel, part conjurer,
part diviner, part beatific daemon,
a human thing, growing to be ever ageless.”
Together we both laugh out loud again
as children may do.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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