The Witch’s Moon

The fog cast a spell on the night

With witches afloat before the morning shines.

A weary-eyed, deep-slumbered Tish

Crept into a witch’s fist.

Unbeknownst to her mind workings,

She stumbled through the forest mumbling,

“Oh how crooked are these branches,

How they sway and shiver with the wind’s howling,

How I wish I were at home in bed

Instead of facing this frosty dread”

Cackled the witch, “Lo and behold my child! Working to death on this frigid night?

Hush and sleep, don’t care, don’t fret, leave your worries to me, I’m the Third Realm’s Witch”

Appalled and enamored as her mind began to churn,

Tish felt her hand grasp at the witch’s charmed urn,

And as she fell to the earth to be held, her vision failed, her face was pale.

“God, what a dream!” Tish exclaimed as she arose, from her winter dream to look at the clock turn 4:44

But as a shadow against the moon caught her eye,

A conical hat tipped at her from a broom waving goodbye.

She crept up to her window,

couldn’t believe her sight.

And as she stretched her arm out to wave,

A charm in her hand left her agape,

It matched the shadow and the moon that she saw

And left her wondering if it was really a dream after all.