free magic

brew me a potion
with bolted mint, a snakeskin shed (soft and crisp, like fresh-baked bread),
and a mute swan’s cry
for ephemeral things are often missed
by a phone-screen-dried eye (small reminder to go outside)
but time’s carriage stops for no one as
it races by and by
funny, how we try to grasp the reins tight between our hands
no breath to catch, no lungs to sigh

burn me some herbs
put on some tea (osmanthus oolong, please) and light the stove to slowly
let it steep (not too long, to keep it sweet)
watch the English ivy, holly, mistletoe leave its pot
and start to creep
taking root and draining away whatever nutrients
the soil wanted to keep
to share with dandelions and moss, redwoods and firs (wilting between silent palm oil trees)
too weak to grow, too dead to reap

give me a spell
a scale of hope, a opinion to bottle,
a thought to free (much magic here is chained, indeed)
through the shuffling of arcane cards, perhaps (maybe)
some quiet decree (in my spoken tongue, by birthright, cautiously)
whispered, muttered at midnight
or break of three
hour of witches, hour of wishing
weal or woe, we shall see