Weaver

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I used to know a witch,

she lived in the

woods south of town.

Her house smelled like herbs,

and patchouli, and magic.

She baked with spelt flour,

and fruit juice sweeteners.

She made fairies

from scraps

of shiny fabric.

She roamed the

land in her van,

traded hats at barter fairs.

I was pretty sure she

was my soul mate,

but we never

made it that far.

She died while

i was away,

at my distant spot

in the desert.

She left me a

medicine pouch,

that guards my

dreams at night,

and guides me

as i find my way,

through homemade poems,

and wheat free cakes,

and every full moon

that spins overhead.

Related posts:

Ghost Dreams

Elemental Tao



This work by mysticdave is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.