She bends at the waist and
Her hair is a fury- it fights like a wild thing possessed.
False sprigs of cypress curl smoke
From the mouth of the oven, the brick cherry red
With the heat.
The air has gone dry, and the eye of the ocean is open,
It sees to the floor, out the door to the north.
Paint it all blue, for the chi, for the life left inside there,
Where she cooks,
What she casts,
With those cats underfoot.
As she smiles the two smiles that she has, maybe one, maybe not,
Maybe both, it depends,
On the fire in the wood, and the blood on her hands.
But the truth in the witch is a
Lie in the candle,
A light left undimmed, whether free or kept chained.
Just the spectre of freedom, a plaid in the heather
Swept down the river, and
Lost in her howl.