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.
Even
Maybe especially
Magic.
