Weaver

she lived in the woods south of town.

Her house smelled like herbs,

and patchouli, and magic.

She baked with spelt flour,

and fruit juice sweeteners.

She made fairies from scraps,

of shiny fabric.

She roamed the land in her van,

traded hats at barter fairs.

I was pretty sure she was my soul mate,

but we never made it that far.

She died while i was away,

at my distant spot in the desert.

She left me a medicine pouch,

that guards my dreams at night,

and guides me as i find my way,

through homemade poems,

and wheat free cakes,

and every full moon that spins overhead.

My Blog~Mystical Poetry, Prose, and Political Viewpoints