the witch’s teat runs dry.

her stippled alabaster skin,

tinges of greenish gray.

she howls in echoed cadence

with a waning gibbous moon,

her thirst for retribution

unquenchable.

village folk and all who toil

late into the dark of night

or beneath the blazing heat

of a cruel sun in resistant fields,

those who tirelessly tend

to cattle, sheep and fowl,

those who bleed and sweat

and endure many hardships,

those who strive to protect

their families & keep them safe, fed

and sheltered from storm —

there are some who embrace her magic.

and yet, there are none of these fools

who do not, will not yield to her charms.