A Poem by Cheryl Roberts Oliver, Award-winning Poet

An old soul
enters her earthly body
with a beginner’s mind.

Too soon, she slips from
swaddled to smothered
as layers of limiting beliefs
designed to keep her safe
hold her spellbound, except
her soul keeps whispering.

There’s so much more,
so little time. Release
the threads that bind.
Gather the divine.

Hidden, always alone,
feeling little and afraid,
her gifts remained unnamed.

Still, she listened to the desert wind
and stories told by stones and trees,
creatures of all kinds,
breathed poisoned air, and
waited for the end to come. 

Even then,
she heard the whispering.
There’s so much more,
so little time. Release
the threads that bind.
Gather the divine.

After decade of unlearning,
and years of gathering the truth,
the spell unraveled.

At last, at last, she swept her memories
for bits of ancient wisdom and found
her beginner’s mind,
sheltered safely all these years.

No more whispering
she sings aloud.
There’s so much more,
so little time. Release
the threads that bind.
Gather the divine.

Still spry, astute, a sage of sorts, her body
has begun to bend into a crooked line,
as her mother’s did,
and when she holds the staff, those who
know will see her as a guide. The voice
she hears is loud and clear.
You are the Crone.
Now’s the time!
Be the divine.

photo: Rafael Garcin @ unsplash.com