The Witch's Tender Magic

The Witch's Tender MagicYou might as well call me a witch,The broom, my trusted friend and guide,And pots that sing as I hum low tunes,Wishes stirred with the evening tide.

The laundry hangs like ghosts on the line,Caped in whispers that dance and sway,The kettle hums with warmth and comfort,Soft enchantments for each new day.

Floorboards echo my careful passage,Steps that cradle each sleepy cry,Shadows lengthen across the nursery,As stars wink to a lullaby.

I bid the wind to sweep the clutter,The sun to brush the room with gold,Tender potions for bumps and bruises,Healing kisses, stories retold.

No storms nor smoke my magic conjures,But quiet spells of whispered care,A mother's love beneath the pine boughs,Turning sorrow to hope laid bare.

So yes, call me a witch if you will,Crafting moments with quiet hands,For every simple wonder I spin,Is a spell that forever stands.