Her hair is askew;

she has the rakish look of a wild one 

who has been up with the werewolves,

swaying under the 3 o’clock moon, 

chanting spells to lure the world to sleep.

✨

She can often be seen muttering over her pots, 

consulting her glowing spell book 

and adding one by one to her potion 

pinches of hope, dashes of courage, and handfuls of strength.

Her bittersweet sacrifice of love 

rises like incense from her steaming cauldron.

✨

She has a healing touch 

to soothe the brows of feverish toddlers, 

comfort crying babies, 

and reassure the young witches in training, 

as they begin to see shapes in the darkness around them— 

the fears they must face and fight 

on their journey to take flight.

✨

But even the life-giving, spell-weaving woman 

gets worn down at times, 

and caught up in the storm around her, 

she shoots lightning from her eyes 

and thunder from her terrible mouth 

so that all things might cease!

✨

She longs for a moment’s solitude, 

to untangle the lightning from her hair;

refill her well with starlight 

and the song of flowers

to weave into spells the next day.

✨

In the hush of a deep breath she remembers

that her most important spells do not decorate 

life’s struggles in sparkling cobwebs;

rather they reveal to her children the deeper magic 

that was around them all along, 

and help them draw life from it,

even in the darkest moments before dawn.

✨✨✨