In her little hut, dim and still,
between jars of herbs and an ancient quill,
the witch sits folded into herself,
the world outside a strange gulp of something else.
Grown-up fuss, rules and the race
have never suited her hurried pace.
She searches for meaning, a glimmer of light,
yet finds only shadows in the glare of daily sight.
Until morning breaks and children appear,
with wide-open questions, with dreams they hold dear.
She teaches them painting in autumnal shades,
how spring whispers softly through ribbon braids.
She speaks of the moon and the year’s turning dance,
of the wind that sings, of the sun’s warm glance,
its bright blades cutting through clouds overhead,
making room for green, where new life is bred.
And there, in their laughter and creative play,
she feels old magic swell in her heart each day.
The world of rules fades beneath their gaze,
she stirs, she rises, finds her own ways.
So she stays in her hut, where stories are spun,
teaching her pupils how seasons run,
a witch whose heart beats in a circle again,
where creativity always begins.
