I am a Southern Witch;
Vast as the fields and the skies of the country,
With just as much love and cruelty and fault and promise.
I sing spells like summertime lullabies, and let the balmy air carry my magic into the night.
I mix potions in mason jars, and enchant brunches with blessings.
My kitchen is an altar; my porch, a church.
Sweet tea is my sacrificial wine, and I dance to hymns under the warm Southern sun.
Here, we keep a crucifix above our doors for protection, and take long draws on our cigarettes for temporary reprieve.
We give good-luck charms to our neighbors, as horseshoes and wildflowers and baskets of muffins.
We monogram sigils into quilts and tapestries and handkerchiefs.
Here, magic is in the crickets that begin their symphony as the sun sets.
It is is the traditions that each family holds sacred, and passes down like scripture.
It is in the stars and the sun and the dusty winds.
I am a Southern Witch,
And my magic is as alive as my home.