You can tell a crone by her cackle –
ranging registers of absurdity
wheezing through ancient lungs
past withered lips.
Arms crossed, knees splayed,
she rock, rock, rocks
to the rhythm of glee.
 
You can tell a crone by her crackle –
knees, neck, elbows popping cartilage
beneath thin, soft skin.  Don’t
let wrinkles fool you.  Bent
but unbroken, she
knows elemental secrets:
 
Earth, Air, Water, Fire
 
This old one, this elder, this woman of wisdom
practical, Quixotic, paradoxical, quickened
runs, soars, swims, burns
with them all.
 
They fill her with story.
 
She is the wellspring
the fountainhead.
 
When you hear her cackle, turn her way
ears pricked, tail away; poised
on the verge of tears, on the lip
of laughter, eager to attend,
ready to receive.

©2014 Christine Irving You Can Tell a Crone by Her Cackle