Witches' Butter
A poem
Witches' Butter brews
on dead aspen bark,
filled from the fallen forest
of frontline trees
that fought this land.
These aspen rot in their unification —
butter melting,
dripping,
delicious butter.
Standing aspens, still connected,
rotting as well —
as witches nip at their toes.
Spreading into roots
as if on warm bread,
the grove,
infested,
spellbound and still —
as it sits smothered in golden,
gelatinous,
gauze.



Oh Wow. I LOVE THIS! Great work!
"of frontline trees
that fought this land." Amazing wordplay with these two lines