Ode to a Witch

I still dream of you,
and wake up wondering.

You were making rain, again,
never knowing when to stop.
When just in reach,
you and sleep escaped me.

You were like your athame,
that glowed in the dark.
That which made it special,
that which made it dangerous.

You too my witch,
also threatened the State.

So I buried it,
in the garden.
As they burned you,
for making rain.

The walls whispered often,
to ecclesiastical agents.
Of witchcraft and sorcery,
bringing rain to the crops.

On top of the world,
looking over the edge.
You could see them coming,
in their large black coach.

You looked too small,
too fragile, too harmless.
To be a threat,
to the men in power.

I hid your athame,
in the garden.
But I could not hide you,
from the theocracy.

Forget I will not, my dear,
for every time it rains.
You are here in my head,
like the Sun coming out.

Something is going to happen,
what and when I know not.
But just saying it could make it happen,
even as you did while you lived.

Copyright © Nov.22, 1999 by R. Seldon All rights reserved