"Witch! Beldame! Crone!"–
these names they called her.

She knew the truth:
age had deserted and defiled her–
hunched, shrunken, otiose to most.

Yet the owl knew her wisdom,
knew itself to be the bird of Minerva
and she the Minerva of this small midwestern town,
goddess of wisdom,
with the yellowed, clouded eyes to see.

And see she did,
to dimensions beyond those bounded by convention,
where sprites, holies and angels
spun with abandonment,
long purpose.

And when she went,
as finally she did,
the bird of night and the wisdom of light
went with her.

And the town,
confused and bereft,
wept
without knowing why.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.