There is a stillness
in the air this morning.
Bare branches hang
like arms of crooked crones.
The pumpkin beside the pot of withering
mums is melting. I’m melting
I’m melting, the wicked Witch
shrieks, and crows in their black
capes join her cry.
I love this season of Scorpio!
As the witch melts back into the earth,
as the trees sink back into their roots,
as the last moth flickers, then flies away,
a single balsam pops into sight.
Its fragrance, sweet and tangy, fills the air
with something new.
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