The weather-witch speaks of secrets foretold,

in shadows between washes of moonlight.

 

Sweetgums reach limbs, looming like gnarly arms

over children who cry in fear, hide from long-fingered

 

twigs reaching to grab the backs of their necks

as they walk the night. I pray to the weather-witch

 

for protection, her sassy shimmer whitening my skin.

My plea—free me of fear, from the poisonous spell

 

that controls my days. Even with votaries promising

a new awakening, a positive outcome, good events

 

on the horizon, the moon penetrates my dreams,

stripping my spirit of pretense in the light of her fullness.

 

Such nonsense, her power of witchery, yet how do

I explain my dream coming true just as I crawl from bed.