The glorious crone is alone, alone!
No man to please, no children to own.
Why wouldn’t she be? Look at who she admires:
women who dreamed of, not lived, in the fire.
Diana the Huntress with arrow and bow,
patron of women but man does not know.
The Maid of Orleans, a warrior saint,
who burned at the stake having no man’s taint.
Then to the Golden Age, Good Queen Bess,
that best Prince of Tudors who ruled in a dress.
Jane A. hit the mark on romance so well
but died still a virgin, the pages do tell.
Emily, middle of moor sisters three,
who wrote, all untouched, so passionately.
There’s Florence, a spinster nurse all of her life,
methinks she could, maybe, have used a wife.
And Eleanor, long-married, only in name
when she cut off the sex after Franklin’s shame.
So isn’t it fitting, isn’t it right
that the glorious crone is alone at night?
© 2013 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
On emulating, willingly or not, women one admires.