“My Witchcraft Is…”
-a poem by Laura Tempest Zakroff ©2016
My witchcraft is rooted in memories, myths, and stories.
My witchcraft looks ever toward the folklore of the future.
My witchcraft is messy, unable to be contained in pristine neat rows and tidy jars.
My witchcraft has a precise pattern, an order woven unto itself.
My witchcraft talks to gods in many forms.
My witchcraft depends not on the gods to function.
My witchcraft lives within the hum of the bones of a city.
My witchcraft dwells in the decaying depths of the forests.
My witchcraft speaks to connections between beings.
My witchcraft curls within the wild of my own heart.
My witchcraft chants, sings, cries, screams, moans, and whispers.
My witchcraft revels in perfect silence.
My witchcraft is a science of fur and bones, rocks and feathers, blood and flowers.
My witchcraft is a mystery of metal and circuits, electricity upon concrete.
My witchcraft curates a collection of parts, bits, pieces, and ephemera.
My witchcraft requires nothing of the physical to do its work.
My witchcraft is a weathered and worn tableau of lines and marks, sigils, and symbols.
My witchcraft is a blank and empty page: new, fresh, open and waiting.
My witchcraft dances in circles.
My witchcraft knows no borders, edges, or bounding lines.
My witchcraft is a honed skill, a craft, an art, a vocation, and a practice.
My witchcraft is natural, metaphysical, and spiritual.
My witchcraft is a gathering of spirits.
My witchcraft walks alone.
My witchcraft is my thumbprint upon the world.
My witchcraft is my own.
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