A Tale of Magic and OCD

In a village where the winds whisper low,
Lived an old lady, with secrets to bestow.
At seventy-five, her hair silver as the moon,
She'd weave tales of magic, in a hypnotic tune.

"Three," she'd say, "is the number of power,
Of witch, of wisdom, in the midnight hour."
Her voice, a spell, would draw you in,
To a world where magic begins.

First, there's the past, where shadows play,
Memories of youth, in the light of day.
Then present, where life's dance is spun,
And future, where dreams are begun.

"Three," she'd chant, her eyes aglow,
"Past, present, future, in a row."
Her garden, a circle, divided in three,
Each part a realm of her witchly spree.

In the first, herbs grew, wild and free,
For potions of love, or memory.
The second, flowers, vibrant and bright,
To cast spells under the moon's soft light.

The third, a space, where nothing grew,
A void for thoughts, where dreams withdrew.
"Here," she'd whisper, "is where magic's born,
In the quiet, where the mind is torn."

Her rituals, always in sets of three,
A candle, a chant, a sacred tree.
She'd circle thrice, under starlit skies,
Her incantations, whispers, and sighs.

But here's the twist, the funny part,
Her magic, her spells, were all in her heart.
For she, the witch, with her OCD,
Counted and grouped, in her own decree.

Her potions, just teas, her spells, mere rhymes,
Her magic, the rhythm of her chimes.
Yet, in her world, she was supreme,
A witch by day, by night, a dream.

So she lived, in her world of three,
A witch, or just OCD, who's to decree?
Her life, a tale, both strange and fun,
In a village where the old witch spun.

And if you listen, on a quiet night,
You might hear her laugh, in the pale moonlight.
For magic, true magic, lies within,
In the heart of an old lady, with a witch's grin.