Crone Fires

Dear Ones, there are tracks my imagination settles into. I find if I don’t resist, and explore what’s there, sometimes I come out of it with just delicious ideas. One of these tracks is aging, specifically going through menopause.

Today’s draft is inspired by what it feels like (for me) after a particularly intense hot flash.

My hands are made of smoke.

Smoke, entwined in my hair

shining silver when it hits the light.

Smoke, rising from the transformation of an aging body

from the fires burning in my pelvic bowl.

Something destroyed.

Something created.

I am the fire.

Come. Warm your hands at my body.