the pot on the stove
with a mix of cinnamon and zest
could have been a brew
from our witchy past
I smell it still when
as the days start to fall
the nights gather power
the wolves sound their call
I recall its spell when
as my soft roundness scrapes
against edges meant for points
I long to escape
we are witches made tame
how I wish to return
to times when we were wild
when we knew, no need to learn
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~ Meegs