In the cool splendor of fall,
ochre leaves
scatter in the yard.

A northern wind blows hard
signalling change
to come.

The crow sounds a rousing cry,
hunched
on a thin branch.

The kettle sputters, she
sips her tea slowly,
burning her throat.

She gathers herbs
to store in
earthen bowls.

Her heart beats shrewdly from
earned wisdom,
she scorns the cold.

Wind whispers of spirits near,
the crow takes flight,
boughs quiver.

On the blood moon of October,
she soars over the blood soaked
battlefield.

[Heddy Johannesen is a Witch and freelance writer. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Circle Magazine, Crone Newsletter, and Essential Herbal magazine. She eagerly anticipates spring’s return to work on her garden to grow organic fruit, veggies, and flowers. She loves to eat pomegranates.]