They disappeared,
leaving me perplexed.
There was no warning,
no ritual to say farewell.
Months later, my body creaks
like an empty barn.
I no longer move in time
with the changing seasons,
for I am autumn and winter
with no hope of spring.
I enter the era of the crone,
wearing clothes as dark as night,
and I think of bones, teeth and skin
rattling in a medicine bag,
waiting to be emptied out
and read as prophecy;
walk the winding path
in the moonlight
leading to white chapped mountains
in the distance.
©Michele Darnell-Roberts
