Season of the Crone
Her breath comes in the fog,
stealing leaves from trees.
Memories, orange and red, return to the earth,
Ashes to ashes,
dust to termination dust on mountain peaks.
My grandmother prepares for the journey back to the beginning.
She cries out for my father. Deep in his slumber
thousands of miles away, he awakens to the sound of her voice.
I wonder if she weighs less than the branches
that break in the wind.
Her hand a twisted root,
colored in autumn’s entropy,
Caresses my mother’s face to tell her she loves her.
Crone’s breath snaps another twig,
swipes another thought,
Until all that’s left is the feel of the wind,
the cold sleep
of winter coming.
Summer Koester teaches Spanish in Juneau, Alaska, where she lives with her husband and two children. She also enjoys acting in local theater, writing songs on her guitar, and belly dancing. Her work is forthcoming in Lowestoft Chronicle and has been featured in Alaska Women Speak, Plum Tree Tavern, the Juneau Empire and Capital City Weekly. She is also a recipient of the Ukiyoto Publishing Best Global Blogs of 2019 award. Read more of Summer here.