Blair’s little coven

of wannabe witches:

potions of gnats and voodoo doll stitches.

At midnight they dance

then vanish to the stone well—

to convene their secret rite,

in susurrations laced with magicky spells…

_And, of course, they’re talking about you!_

When they come back,

You can feel their macabre little stares.

Don’t let them get to you!

You were meant to be here.

You await their verdict

in dreadful fear—

but the oldest steps forth

and tells you what you’ve wished to hear:

_Do you, New Attendee, solemnly swear,_

_To protect the coven with a witchy flair? _

Your heart screams _YES! I do, I do, I DO!!!…_

__but you remember to play it cool!__

__

The moon hangs overhead,

shining a pearly star onto your hand.

You wish to tremble and shake,

but your mighty heart

has a confidence that cannot break.

So instead, you jut out your chin

and nod with a firm smile:

the assurance of a witch.

_Great_! The little one grins,

taking your fist into her bony, white palm for a magical second.

A low hum lingers

and the frosty breeze kisses your neck

as you step into the circle

and raise your prideful hand.

_I am ready,_ you announce.

And you are sure of it.

The ruby dagger dances lightly in your fingers

and wickedly slashes along your starlit palm.

_You’re ready to become a witch!_