Lady of my deepening fall,
          I feel the grief of age behind my eyes.
          Not only simple healing tears, veilmisting, sorrow cleansing,
          but grief and love held fast within my skull;
          the growing oneness of the bones that
                       are my motherís
                       are my daughterís
                       yet my own.

          The bones they ache, each one, to tell a separate tale.
          Their creaking, cracking voices all make up
          the oral history of my face,
          the shape of my self in this place, and at this time.

          I need to cry the bones, not tears.
          They ask their strong and frail stories to be wept,
          to be sung, to be en-joyed,

                       finally to be told
                       to a gathered circle of girlchild faces
                       glowing in the everfirelight
                       before the everhearth,
                       tended by the warm and ageing hands
                       of the always mother.

© Annie Brosnan

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