NaPoWriMo – Poem #11

Crone Ascending

When that which was
and that which is becoming
realizes that which shall be.

Wrinkles like record-keepers
mark the years, the moments
fixed, earning their place,
in the register of time.

Round and supple curves
have melted, hanging heavy
on a frame shrunken, shorter
where it once stood tall.

A barren, empty womb
where unfulfilled promise,
fruit that never ripened,
has withered and died.

Eyes, curtained windows,
into a mind full, but inaccessible
broken stairs, rotted rungs,
and detours without destination

When the maiden has faded,
the mother turns away,
and the crone is ascending.