The Noon-Day Witch

The Noon-Day Witch

There is no escape from the noon-day witch.
I'm in the kitchen rolling out pies
when she arrives,roiling up the stairs.
She has powdered herself with dandelion dust
leaving puffs of herself everywhere.
My thoughts(and pies) are muddled and lumpy
like lemonade gravy.
This noon lemonade is heavy.
Un peu de Pernod peut-etre?
We drink it anyway,
and toast the Belle of Amherst.
Sliced, silken papaya lies in a cut-glass bowl
seething of vanilla spice.
Phillip Glass passes time on the radio.
He's da bomb.
Someday all the bombing shall cease.
Seizing the moment,the noon-day witch keens
for her subterranean urges.
Her soft underbelly glows
with a pale phosphoresence.
She is a worm and has no bones.
She juggles galgalim ;celestial spheres.
She is a golem made of memories.
The pies are done baking.
They are winking their good-byes.
The noon-day witch is sweeping up leavings
of herself before she flies.
Toots, when the universe throws you lemons...
I'll make wavy gravy.
There will be no place to hide,
when next she arrives.