We enter the womb tonight. It is only a matter of time… the trees are weeping! The trees are weeping in the dark! Weeping and wailing, the trees and leaves are celebrating the only Tradition. It is only a matter of time. She once was a maiden. She became a mother. But now the Crone is here, knocking loudly on the door. Sing the dirge, sing the praise of the phase and honor the piles of teardrops. Different yellows, oranges and browns, singing the same song. There is only one Tradition, and this is it. She knocks and the Tradition sees you. Watch the prayers scuttling across the altar of the ground, grey and rough, green still in places; cartwheeling prayers skidding through the streets, floating on the cold steel of the pond. Some of them are stubborn, and cling to the cheeks of nakedness. See the crone’s fingerbone branches? She knocks.