As Halloween approaches the poems of the season seem to leak into me.

From her wrinkled nose flowing down to her curled-up shoes, a witch is a witch through and through.

Tough as night she will conjure all your pleasures and delights.

A witch is a Smith at saddling a levitating a knotted wooden broom.

Mystic is her charm casting spells with the flick of her magic baton.

Whispering to spooks and grooming familiars a witch is very peculiar.

Spinning cauldrons with a gnarled tree branch full of boiling soup, some call icky goop.

Chiming bells to calm the ghouls that stir in bottomless wells witches have all the charming spells.

Mysterious as a void at the bottom of a chasm a witch is a living spasm of a fiendish orgasm.