the forest had rested in vermillion dark since she was burnt one winter in those tangled jungles. her eyes were terror wild, and walk so sharp, it made the shadows of the dark weep a night. the licking flames resonated her bones of hives and clove paper.[ in every moon the forest glides in russet hues. and the flames rise up again ] all the village heard cry from the coven, for they knew she was awake as her bleak shadow raised out of the earth like nothing ever bloomed there.

the graining fragrance of summer died into winter wounds. all the roses smelt like funeral and embalming aids.

her broomstick lended on every house that made the fire, and magic shrouded the river for every folk who drank that night died of poison and atropa pies.

— waking the witch // stanza