The Witching Hour by Andrew Wyeth (1977). Currently in a private collection.

Make me part of cunning folk.
Blessed be the weaving tale —
Circe-like, Cassandra stoked.
Paper altars nestle words,
Their salt sting, their rapture waters.
Make marriages rank, unruly,
Like and as the conjure words.
Warp and bend these lines like oxbow.
Blessed be our livid tales,
Tinged with sage, reluctant rue.
Heed talismans — deer, wolf, hawk —
Grassland stalkers, forest walkers.
May many moons appear — milk, mead, and hare.
When emptiness is rampant,
Bring fire tongues and sunder veils
To revenants in waiting.
Whorls of words unhinge the gate to
Sulci, gyri within my brain, their
Synapse sparks and syntax furrows.
Blessed be this seat at table;
Cakes and ale end my entreaty.
Holy ones who write in wonder,
Make me one of you — a creatrix.

[Jean Wollam holds B.A. and M.A. degrees in English from the University of Utah.  She is most inspired by hiking in the red rock country of southern Utah, and the open spaces of Abiquiu, New Mexico.  Her work has previously appeared in Existere, Haibun Today, Green Silk Journal, and upcoming in Shooter magazine.]