The Witches of Belfast

I think I know where the witches live
in my town.  In my town I'm sure they dwell
          where lintels capture shooting stars;
          where contented cats sleep on window sills;
          where a gable flies an angel.

You can tell their homes by the gardens.
In gardens wild and bright you can see
          profusion of sage and bee balm,
          chicory, sunflowers, marguerite,
          bleeding hearts at the very least.

Witch-homes may not be tidy
but often they are small.  Small and overflowing
          with painted colors, all broken and chipped,
          and cracked plates under flower pots,
          and sea glass and cookies in jars.

The residents of a witch-house fly
but not usually in the air, though in trembling air
           the butterflies banner between blooms;
           feeders magnetize finches and doves,
           and for all of them witches care.

Magic rises from rooftops
in the misty, morning air.  In the morning air floats
          breathfuls of baking bread,
          laughter of children's surprise
          the quiet as poems arrive.

Some witches don't own their magic
in my town. In my town they are unaware
          of mysterious powers within.
          They sing and paint, plant and create,
          suffer broken hearts--
          but they live whole-heartedly.