The Magic Tree

Perhaps you need a magic tree,

Beneath whose branches

You can convene your coven,

Turn toads to toadstools, and

Dispel bad spells.

A good, working, reliable magic tree,

With barren bony branches

Grasping at the gray fall sky,

A perch for crows and ghosts,

Bewitched and witching,

Festering nest of mysteries.

The tree I know stands high

Atop a sandy rise,

Beside a band of cedars

With a needled copper floor.

A footpath passes through

The aura of its quiet sorcery,

The dull hum of its vortex

Churning along like chant.

You turn a corner. 

And there you are.

It goes unnoticed mostly,

Tucked into the ochre woods

Of achy wet October days,

Its power dormant til 

The seeker sees the doorman

And he ushers her in, smiling

The sly and knowing smile

That they share.

And if she never comes?

In time the tree will seal,

Ossify, become strong in death.

Because neglect kills everything.


Maybe especially


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