The merry ole crone is out for the day
Broom propped “straw up” while she is away.
Her skirts are cotton, she smells of a rose.
By her violet door, herbs and flowers now grow.
Sage and Rosemary sizzle there in the sun
The labors of summer, yet to be done
In her heart, she conjures the death of it all,
The sacred bend of harvest and fall
She walks~ clutching the call of a dove
The wheel ever turns~ below and above