The Crone Calls

I can hear the old crone call
in the dark still nights of fall.
Gaze upon her ancient face,
feel the winter's cold embrace.

Walk across the barren land,
Take ahold her icy hand.
Walk along through snowdrifts deep,
All the earth appears asleep.

This is not a time to mourn,
All the dead shall be reborn.
Winter’s winds will lose their might
Thawed with the return of life.

As the seasons move ahead,
Grandma Spider spins her thread.
So, again the light of day,
allows the night to have its way.

I can hear the old crone call
In the dark, still nights of fall.
Gaze upon her ancient face—
Feel the winter’s cold embrace.