Poem: Witch?

Am I woo enough to be a real witch?

Crystals are pretty rocks,

and trees provide shade.

Neither whisper to me,

except the susseration of leaves

on a breezy day.

I’m too woo to go to church.

I vibrate to a Moon calendar,

to a dual deity,

God and Goddess

and those between and on either side

of those labels.

Sometimes I see Aboriginal faces

in tree branches.

I once saw a rock spirit by a river bank.

Am I woo enough to be a witch?

Am I like a nominal Christian,

turning up for Sabbats, hand fastings,

and Viking funerals,

and otherwise pottering through my life.

Am I witch because I say I am?

Even my dreams feature the elements,

and their balance in nature.

There’s no hint in my ancestry

that anyone was herbalist,

a bone thrower,

burnt at the stake,

or moved to the edge of town and consulted

only at full moon.

I am witch because I am.

I drop into animal minds,

and hear the earth breathe.

Practice doesn’t make perfect.

It makes practice.

I carry my magic in my body and mind,

humming my blood,

and singing me up to the stars.

One thought on “Poem: Witch?

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