Today's poem is by Glenna Luschei

Witch Dance

Winter presses our hands
in homespun mitts.

Autumn is over.
We step the witch dance
dance of love and death.

Terns feed at the lake
on their flight from Alaska
and rain bites the quince.

Where are we going?
Are those daggers of geese
in the sky
a warning?

Copyright © 2010 Glenna Luschei All rights reserved
from Witch Dance
Presa Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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