Park Bench Crone

There she is, she’s grown beyond root and branch, at peace despite the incontinence of an unlooked for wisdom. 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 world. I want to keep my silence let only my hot breath snort but there, on a creaky bench a crone radiates, as a young girl would holding her newborn joyfully up to the heavens. I surface from my reverie, 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,” 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 as children may do.