Rumors about what you do with the broom
Dart like mice through the quaint, cruel village
Your spells will send some gossips to the tomb
Cooking anything entails some spillage
Teaching an object that it cannot fall
Is a skill that being a wife taught you
Years squandered sweeping that dry, bitter hall
Made resentful sweat cover you like dew
Cresting the steeple of the scolding church
You feel a frisson of raw liberty
Dance through your flesh, and it makes the broom lurch
Vertigo confirms this reality
Having been low, you relish being high
Having obeyed, you gravity defy
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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