They tried to burn the witch out of me
but you can’t obliterate something that’s etched in your soul
Babayaga. The Russian witch. She’s my wise woman that lives in a chicken hut in the woods. I’ve been craving woods. And leaves. I’ve been craving her. I’ve been craving folk tales and myths and the magic of women who knew. So. I knock on the door of my home. And enter the deep down place where wisdom resides. My babayaga hangs out in the belly of the dark. She knows things they want us to forget.
She knows that poetry saves hearts from going dead.
She knows that sitting with trees is sacred.
She knows that sisterhood is where the healing lies.
She knows that deep breaths give access to answers.
She knows that feminine wisdom is a missing piece for the world.
They want to burn the witch out of me.
Make me more American.
Make me forget the tales that my grandparents told.
But my roots reach back to the Russian woods. My feet walk in the soil of stories about wise women crones, and herbs that heal, and soups that nourish thick with mushrooms plucked from the forest muck.
