Maiden, Mother, Crone

The birth of the mother
Is the death of the maiden

A grape that is ripened
Or a bottle aged to perfection

Summer's lustful wheat in the fields
Leaves crimson become blood at the till

The sun has risen halfway
Standing in time until fall gives way

Then death of the mother
Becomes birth of the crone

As these three meet at sunset
Facing inward toward a full soul

Rebirth through a daughter
A maiden at her best

As she follows the footsteps
Of her mothers now at rest.