“Night-dyed herbs,” came the vendor’s cry. “Come buy!
Seductive power. Risk-free trial! Please try
My wares on Samhain!” Odd plants caught my eye.
What did I have to lose? “Can you reverse
Ill-omened destiny?” The crone was terse.
“I’ll handle all requests. But pay me first.”
Showing your photo only made her nod,
Suspending my belief in priests, saints, God.
Entrusted with my prayers, their grace was flawed.
Counting my money like a cold cashier,
The witch’s countenance conveyed a sneer.
October’s dying heat lured magic near.
Stroking strange herbs with calloused palms, her quotes
Were incantations. Still inchoate, motes
Re-formed as you — grime hanging on your coat,
Death’s tight grip meeting life’s warm open hand
As you restaked your claim, breathed air once banned,
Embraced me tightly. Was this wonderland?
The crone removed herself, deft as a fawn.
Dismayed, when I looked back, you, too, were gone.
