I’m currently on the road for my book tour, but I decided to take a few moments to revisit this poem I wrote last year, and change its structure a bit.
“My Witchcraft Is…”
My witchcraft is messy, unable to be contained in pristine neat rows and tidy jars.
But it has a precise pattern, an order woven unto itself.
My witchcraft lives within the hum of the bones of a city.
It also dwells in the decaying depths of the forests.
My witchcraft is rooted in memories, myths, and stories.
Yet I am ever looking toward the folklore of the future.
My witchcraft talks to gods in many forms.
However, the magick depends not on the gods to function.
My witchcraft speaks to connections between beings.
Its roots curl within the wild of my own heart.
My witchcraft is a gathering of spirits.
The witch always walks alone.
Witchery knows no borders, edges, or bounding lines.
My witchcraft chants, sings, cries, screams, moans, and whispers.
And it revels in listening to perfect silence.
My witchcraft is a science of fur and bones, rocks and feathers, blood and flowers.
Its makeup is a mystery of metal and circuits, electricity upon concrete.
My witchcraft curates a collection of parts, bits, pieces, and ephemera.
Yet, its practice requires nothing of the physical to do its work.
My witchcraft is a honed skill, a craft, an art, a vocation, and a practice.
It is born within: natural, metaphysical, and spiritual.
My witchcraft is a weathered and worn tableau of lines and marks, sigils, and symbols.
It is also a blank and empty page: new, fresh, open and waiting.
My witchcraft is my thumbprint upon the world.
My witchcraft is my own.
– Laura Tempest Zakroff