Spell Casting Poem by Anne Brooke

Outside in the dark
starlight sparkles,
exposes the room’s soft comfort.

The witching hour.
The knife’s blade gleams
a deeper silver

as it unsheathes
the apple’s white flesh
held in the palm

of my hand.
Scent of autumn hedgerows.
Keep the fingers steady,

watch the smooth paring
of skin unfold
its secret spell.

One length,
then two
before the deed is done.

Close the eyes tight
and release
the magic today:

apple rind thrown on the fire
reveals your true love’s name,
they say.