Poem

Your broom sits in the pantry, Eating dust mites in the dark And awaiting your return from The village square. October brought your scent Upwind, from the valley where Your pyre is still shedding ashes, And the townspeople ignore the Lingering, blackened air. It has never taken this long To call on familiar spirits And charm your way back To the smokestacks of our lair. I'll leave a candle to melt Under the eaves, to usher you back For a spell, and steep the love potions You left in my care.