I was always a nice girl
with a few bad habits.
I whistled a lot
out gathering eggs.
When my brothers hand-wrestled
I insisted on winning.
The villagers said
I walked like a boy.
My father used to eye me from afar,
and hold private conversations
in the corner with mother.
When other girls married
I took no notice,
though I threw rice at the churchdoor
along with the rest.
Whatever I was seeking
it wasn’t this:
a screaming cradle
and a man with soot for fingers.
Once I went to a gathering
in the heart of the forest.
Where shadows make shadows
I learned my true name.
Since then I have lived here
at the edge of the woods
with my tabby and my charms,
my thatch needing repair.
My potions are famous
all over these parts.
When people come seeking
from near and from far,
they ask what goes in.
I mutter: “Roots and berries.
Berries and roots.”
How can I tell them
it is themselves they taste?
