Watching
I am the witch of dying things
of things that cling
to a life that's passed,
custodian of the broken-wing
who shakes in the bush
and tries to sing.
I soothe the stings
of the white-nosed pup,
his few days left like clay that clings
to the potter's hands when the pot is thrown,
wagging his tail, eyes growing dim
unsure on his feet, afraid of alone.
I was the watcher
as life leaked away, you
winding off slow as a traveling snake
loose in the snow, slipping into the maw,
dead at first frost like a turnip top,
grey dust on a root both bitter and raw.
There's none left to be
my watcher, my witch,
to soothe the sting
when they see me there
remembering the sun, pretending to live,
old knots of love caught in winter's hair.
I am the witch of dying things
learning their ways
while midnight sings.
June 2021
Posted for
Image via Sunday Muse, Fair Use
