The Witch

I’ll be the witch
blackened by fire’s soul,
smoke stuck in sooty hair
grown long for kindling.

I’ll stir this soup
thickened in the cauldron,
fetid with the rotting fruits
of a fig tree.

I’ll live by this highway
secluded in the winter-naked woods,
night lit only by harvest moons
bonfires and my eyes.

I’ll dwell in this shack
mildewed over ages,
the garden out back
blooming lilies and hydrangea
in colors only I can see.

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