"I used to believe in magic," she once said
While she weaved together the clothe
"Miracles, angels, and divinity," the crone whispered
I saw her eyes go to the candle like a moth

Her hands were old and wraught with years
Even her white hair seemed to sigh in age
But she was quiet for that moment
Like an actor making ready for the stage

"I wanted to believe in something," she confessed
While I watched her with a kind smile
"Its hard sometimes to give up," she said
And then looked at me as if I were her child

She reached out, her hands shaking from the times
They were cold while they held on to my face
"Sometimes believing is being blind," the crone said
Before she suddenly began to cough, her life holding on with grace

"I know," I replied, as I patted her curving back
"I still believe," I said before I tried to turn away
She grabbed me by my hand and twisted me around to meet her eyes
They're depths alight with the anger of Summer's May

"I know you believe," she spat
"Does that mean I am blind?" I asked while my wrist crooned
She was silent for a moment before she looked into the fire
"You will know soon."

"The Old Crone"

2005