There are things only a crone knows.
There are prayers only she speaks and medicine only she dispenses.
Hers has been a life of dashed hopes and unnecessary worries and inflated egos and violent injustice that still grasps for a safer and saner and kinder world.
Her arms are wide enough and strong enough to hold the sorrows of three generations, sometimes four.
She travels inches, miles, millenia to contact her tribe and adhere to them.
She speaks with the wisdom of birth and death, sickness and healing, sin and mystery, song and magic.
An anthropological wonder, decrepit of station and thriving still, her capacity for forgiveness is legendary and her desire for it even greater.
She recognizes her flaws and knows how to save humanity because of them.
She is honest as the moon, and as willing.
Blessed be the crone.