The poems I write often arrive in voices larger than my own—the archetypes that speak through all of us: Child, Lover, Mother, Healer. This one belongs to the Crone. E.K.
They told me patience was a virtue—
sit still, wait pretty, smile sweet,
like some saint-in-training
with a knot in her gut
and a painted-on grin.
But darling, let me tell you—
Patience?
She’s got a twitch in her eye
and a blister on her heel.
She’s the wild cousin of impatience,
trying to act dignified at the table
but already halfway out the door.
No.
I don’t do patience anymore.
Not like that.
I do constancy.
I plant mango seeds in drought—
not for harvest,
but for love of the taste,
for love of the trying.
Constancy doesn’t wait for things to get better—
she shows up anyway.
Again. And again.
Because love is not a mood.
It’s a vow.
I’ve been that earnest little girl
counting down til the bell rang,
til the pain stopped,
til he called back,
til menopause,
til the second coming
of something that never arrived.
That was never patience—
that was hope with a migraine.
Constancy?
She chops wood.
She makes soup.
She stitches joy into torn seams.
She gets up when the wave knocks her flat
and says: Again.
I’ve lived long enough to know
every cradle rocks toward a grave,
and every grave grows something green.
You don’t surf life by staying dry.
You surf by falling off,
swallowing water,
learning the rhythm
of rise, tumble, rise again.
And when Sister Dread shows up,
I pour her a thimble of tea,
let her twitch in the corner
while I keep tending the fire.
She doesn’t run the show.
But she reminds me
this heart is still alive.
Courage isn’t the absence of fear—
it’s the sacred art
of carrying on
while fear’s still in the room.
And trust?
Not incense and floaty prayers,
but dirt under the nails,
an open palm.
I don’t force life to be beautiful.
I plant what I care about—
and mean it.
Every soul carries a cargo,
a gift.
Maybe it’s soup,
or a song,
or the grace of listening.
Whatever it is—deliver it.
You don’t need a stage.
You don’t need applause.
Just let your hands speak.
They tell the truth
more honestly than lips.
Once in a hospital basement
I watched a woman scrubbing pans.
Her knuckles burned raw from soap.
When someone blessed her hands
she wept—
because no one had told her
her offering was holy.
Well, I’m telling you now:
It is.
And so are you.
So no—
I will not be your patient woman.
I will be your constant one.
Faithful to the seed,
to the season,
to the soil,
to the soul.
Because trust
isn’t about sitting still—
it’s about standing true.
And I do.
