There once lived a witch
at the edge of a wood,
who brewed her potions with purpose
and sold her wares when she could.
She had plans for a thriving business,
grand schemes and ambitions aplenty,
but the coins in her purse grew fewer
while her grievances grew many.
And somewhere beyond her garden,
in the bustle of the world outside,
there lived one whom she held responsible
for the ebb of her fortunes and pride.
There! she declared, I have found it.
The cause of my trouble and woe.
If only that meddlesome creature would vanish,
my business would flourish and grow.
She did not consider the changing of seasons,
the shifting of markets and taste,
the paths that had quietly closed
or the chances she herself had let waste.
No, the fault lay entirely elsewhere.
Of this she was perfectly sure.
And if justice would not be delivered,
then vengeance would have to suffice.
So she gathered the bones of a raven,
three beetles, a thimble of spite,
a twist of dried wormwood and nettles,
and a candle to burn through the night.
She ground up her bitterness finely,
stirred in all the grudges she'd kept,
then spoke the old words of the hexing
while the shadows around her crept.
Let the one who has hindered my fortune
be bound by a terrible fate.
Let them stand where I choose, without movement,
and learn what it means to frustrate me.
The candle burned blue.
The kettle screamed.
The rafters shuddered and groaned.
And something went terribly wrong.
For the spell, as spells are inclined to do,
when cast with a heart full of spite,
took the witch at her word
and twisted her meaning
in ways she had not thought quite right.
The wind rushed in through the chimney.
Her fingers grew stiff as bark.
Her feet drove deep into the earth
as roots curled beneath her hearth.
Her hair burst forth in green leaves.
Her arms stretched wide into boughs.
Her skin thickened into rough timber.
Her voice became the hush of the house.
And where once stood a furious witch,
with her ledgers and bottles and plans,
there stood an oak, crooked and ancient,
with no more use for her hands.
She raged, of course, for a while.
She cursed the sky and the ground.
She blamed the one she had hexed,
and every soul who came round.
But the seasons paid no attention.
The rain fell just as it pleased.
The squirrels made nests in her branches.
The wind stole her last angry leaves.
Spring came, and then summer.
Autumn followed, and winter came too.
And slowly, though slowly indeed,
the world carried on without her.
She watched from her place in the woodland
as traders came, prospered, and went.
She saw new fashions replace old fashions,
and fortunes rise and be spent.
She saw that the world was a river,
that no hand could command it to stay.
That obstacles, like stones in the water,
might be passed by another way.
Had she turned her attention inward,
had she paused before choosing to fight,
she might have found clever solutions
and brought her own business to light.
She might have changed what she was selling,
found new customers, altered her trade.
She might have discovered that sometimes
a fortune is patiently made.
But the witch had been terribly certain
that another was to blame.
And now she had centuries to consider
the folly of feeding that flame.
So if you should wander the forest
and find an old oak standing alone,
with roots that grip deep into the earth
and a hollow that echoes like stone,
be kind, and be careful what you whisper.
The trees have heard more than you know.
Some were born of acorns and sunshine.
Some had a long way to go.
And some were once witches
who could not let go.
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