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,
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,
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,
Come together again
In the night
In the dark
In the Fall
Like twin spirits satisfied at last,
They run together,
for magpie 35