Ashes, Jasmine, and Molasses

A witch fell in love with the Autumn,

And with her rich golden-brown skin.

The witch longed to place her lips to it,

And trace runes there with her tongue

Like an apple and its stem

Falling on perfect Earth.



Autumn called the witch from her dreams at night--

Her nail gliding along her hip in bed,

Like an old iron hook on a porch door.

There is power in orange moons,

And weakness, oh glorious weakness,

In love.



The witch, at this time, had a job at the post office,

But she couldn't resist gathering up gas bills, catalogs, shopping circulars,

And burning them at midnight.

She collected the ashes, adding jasmine and molasses

Until, with a snap of her wrist and the right words,

They became love letters.

The Autumn received them

And smiled without a word.



The Autumn shook her thick brown hair,

And leaves filled gutters, streets, and fading gardens

Like straw fills an effigy.

Crows gathered on her shoulders and she cooed to them, as if they were her babies,

Each so black,

So peculiar

And so faithless.



Autumn knows that her beauty is as one with her dying

And the witch, her admirer,

Dies too, for love of her.

But yet, they remain

In everything that is paired--

Like two posts of a rail fence, two cats in a driveway, two forks of the same stream,

They kiss and part,

Then,

Come together again

In the night

In the dark

In the Fall

Like twin spirits satisfied at last,

They run together,

Whole.

______

for magpie 35