the witch comes to visit
with soup and a story
sets an old *** on
the bard’s little wood-burning stove
and he watches as she works,
perched on a stool

and the witch, she tells
the bard about the stars,
how they always remember
and live for thousands of years

there is one star in particular
she weaves a tapestry about
with her words,
but only where that star cannot hear
taken by pirate ship upon the waves

she speaks, with something like
fondness and resignation
about how this star,
he fell in love with the moon

and when the moon was
too far for him to follow
his love turned towards the ocean
and how it stretches from
one end of the horizon to the other

the bard knows this star well,
of course, often wakes with him
slumbering still, between the
bard and the closed bedroom door

the witch then asks the bard
what he is tied to
and the bard tells her who
he is anchored to

and, setting a bowl of
soup on the well-worn table,
the witch says, with unmistakable
fondness this time,
“then you are a fool, bard of mine”

the bard nods in agreement,
almost tells the witch he
only eats lunch for her,
but suspects she already knows,
so says instead,
“aye, and a fool in love
is the very worst kind”

and the witch will agree,
because the bard is right

but, she will also tell
the bard how this star,
he loves a man
with scars through his eyebrow
and across the palm of his hand
from building a widow’s walk
with the star’s name on his tongue
the whole time

and there is an honesty
in loving someone to the point
of creation again and again,
is there not?