The Witch
The Witch
Soft as lamb’s ear
Sharp as honey locust thorn
She prowls around at midnight
The time when witches are born
She gathers her nightshade in a purple, quilted bag
With her cat by her side, they all think she is mad
She smiles to herself and hums a soft tune
The owls come to greet her in the dark of the moon
She likes it this way
Being left alone and a bit feared
They find her when they need her
It’s been that way for years
When justice isn’t served or love goes unrequited
When the baby needs healed or the old man’s scared of dyin
They’ll venture to her with payment of choice
She’ll do what needs doing, without raising her voice
When the work is done
She’ll disappear just as quick
And they’ll say once again
Stay away from the witch
