A Possible Witch
you step like a puzzled vixen,
you sniff at damp bark
and beds of leaves,
clothed in burnt sticks and smoke,
your eyes are slanting snow,
wary of ice and shadow;
this falls between us,
you wait under trees
or at frozen gates
on evenings when I late home
carrying the basket of stones
you laid at my door.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2016
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