A witch’s lent
The homestead that housed a hundred years of earth-workers
and caught crying babes, covered their heads
from cold country nights – it couldn’t last forever.
It fell last fall.
At long last collapsed to the lowing of the
crowding cattle, and I clamber
to reach the ripest gooseberries that
I pick for pie – pull the plumpest and prick my fingers.
Blood falls on the bedroom floor of dirt,
my aunt’s barren library.
My great-grandmother’s namesake does not grow here,
but bluebells bruise beneath my boots
and I feel that foreign ache with each footfall:
the house fell, finally at home in the earth,
the wind in the quaking aspen whispering,
“you are dust, you are dust,”
and I, quaking, praying, quietly,
“I shall return, I shall return.”
Sara Diane is a homesick prairie banshee and stitch witch currently surviving in metropolitan New England, USA.