Season of The Witch

Dancing on the frigid currents of change,

Autumn arrives with a thunderous roar,

A sharp clap of frost that snaps our eyes

To the sky as it grays,

To the trees flaming in place of the summer sun.

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A powerful wind of cold and leaves and spirits

Whisks the living off their feet,

Sweeps them indoors where they are safe from

The omnipresent darkness, the subtle shift

Between a warm world full of life and the unrelenting,

Vicious reality where deities struggle to exist.

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It is the season of the witch.

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Her nails have gone black from the fresh dirt

Of another bountiful harvest but the water

From the crisp river with a penchant for drowning

Disrespecting, ignorant ill-wishers

Carries the mud downstream, leaving her clean

And depositing the earth in next year’s forest.

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The witch grinds her herbs, pets the petals

Of her weary sunflowers with a murmured thank you

For hanging on until the later frost.

She dances with the twirling pumpkin vines,

Lays beneath walnut trees and dreams in the falling,

Fluttering leaves of red and yellow

Before floating to the perennials and wishing them well.

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The long journey of winter will come

But the witch with long auburn hair tinged brown

And gray worries about the flourishing green of her garden,

Remedies to sorrow, and the spirits slipping

Through the veil to come say hello again,

To whisper soft words of love and belonging.

The earth settles beneath her feet, tired and content.

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She makes love to the universe, cradles its dreams

In sweaty palms and strokes the leaves of hope

With careful, ethereal touches that align with the stars.

She is a child of autumn, a descendent of the moon,

A sorceress convinced she can leave a footprint

On the emerald carpet the universe has thrown underfoot

With a touch of compassion and a sprinkling of magic.

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The witch doesn’t fear the morphing skies,

Nor does she tremble when the Earth breathes

And lets out a sigh, ruffling the canopy of her forest,

The one she pads through barefoot in the summer,

Sits in for long hours humming ancient songs

When the temperatures dip low and

Snow covers the hard dirt taking its long sleep.

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She smiles with the universe, weeps when it hurts.

The witch tucked in the forest dances clothed in a dress

Crafted by the stars and made with alabaster moonlight.

She drinks down flowers, strings words together

To protect the small space she has carved out.

She is a woman made of fallen leaves and dried blossoms.

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While the rest cower and sleep in their homes,

Filled with terror at the power swelling around them,

She picks dead daisies and smiles at the black sky

Empty without the moon tonight.

And her smile feeds the trees she’s tucked in for bed,

Bringing her long seasons of life ahead.

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It is the time of the witch,

The hour of mystical change

Where magic lives and breathes,

Reproduces on steamy morning breath and fog,

Plants its seeds in an open field and crowded forest floors.

It is her time to dance and be and exist completely free

In the cool embrace of autumn, her beloved season.

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