a poem

Before October Comes
For Diotima

Witches are stirring in their
dankly decorated caves.

Their time is here now.

Jaunty feather is tucked
into the old hatband.
Best robes are shaken out
and mended.

The cider is in its bottles and
herb bundles
droop from the
ceiling beams.

We keep our calendars close
as the days fill.
Dusting, sweeping—yes, that is also
what brooms

There is a talk to give,
a classroom to visit.
The UUs need a sermon—
light or deep this year?

The quest continues
for the bag of
Mellowcremes that holds
brown black cats
and honeypots
and Moon faces
and stubby Witches.

Is it Fall Mix or Autumn Mix and will the witches
even be there this year
or have they been finally
from their friends?

The churches raise money with vast oceans of
which doesn’t seem fair

Rituals are created and
venues found.
Classes and
media calls and
patient explanations
of history
of rights
of images so old
their language
is forgotten.

And still the graves of
my people here
want my attention,
waiting patiently for
their decoration
of green beans
and chicken
and coconut cake,
longing for their whiskey perfume.


2 thoughts on “a poem

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