crone

The light is sewing night-gowns for the twilight
It is weaving threads of nakedness together
and now my words
must be shot through with light.
My truth punctured by the unknown,
a radiance of thought beyond thought.
O Holy Night
bringer of comfort and pain
kiss me deep
where my soul can shed
seeds of newness.
For I have been a broken tooth of desire
but my pelt is pliable and whole.
Let the beautiful crone of love
anoint my substance with
new wisdom
for tomorrow's original dawn
shall come begging soon
at my door.