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.