Crone Magick

Mother Crone

Mother, we knew the caress of your deep currents
before we grew feathers and took wing.
We knew the rock and lullaby of your waves
before we grew legs and tottered out from
between your sunkissed limbs onto the shore.

Mother, we knew the salty sustenance of your body,
the irresistible pull of your tides
nudging us ever forward, until—incredibly—
we walked on two legs, shaky at first.

Mother, we grew and grew and drifted distant.
Forgetting the way your suspiration
drives our own very breath, we forsook you for
high octane, for spray starch, for Big Macs and chilly houses.
We forgot you in our greed for everything we made or thought we made.

We spat poisons in your pristine air.
In the depths of your belly, we unleashed the water monster,
its slick tendrils endlessly unfurling,
their long fingers snaking out to wrap around
the throats of your sea turtles and egrets,
stopping the water dance of the curved fin,
ending the dip of feathered wing in air,
garroting your children in its putrid embrace.

Is there a sign, is there a chant, to bring us to our senses?
Give us a song, give us a way,
is there an incantation to say to put the mad genie
internal combustion back into its bottle,
to dispel evil spirits set loose by our monstrous chemical brews,
our fission of nuclear bad news.
Give us a sign, give us a way, give us an incantation to say. 

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