He sat reading a tale on that Valentine’s Eve,
When there came a tap, tap on the door.
Who could it be?
He stood up to see, and
Lo and behold, imagine that—
A witch with a hawk on her hat!
The bird clung to the brim while she swiped at a tear,
“Sir, may I come in from the cold?”
His heart bled as she cried,
So he led her inside,
Not a worry of spells or black magick.
She settled herself on the rug by the fire,
Crackle! Pop! went the burnt orange flames.
She tucked her legs to the side,
And spread her skirt wide,
The bird looked around with a grin.
The man fled to the kitchen to make her a drink,
And the bird caw, caw’d all the while.
Then, he bowed to his knee,
To hand her the cup of hot tea,
A soft moan slipped away from her lips.
Warm felt her fingers, and pink turned her cheeks,
She began to feel human once more.
But the man still couldn’t believe,
Yet his eyes didn’t deceive,
Lo and behold, imagine that—
A witch with a hawk on her hat!
He searched the depth of her pupils,
The bird eyed them both.
Did he dare?
No, he mustn’t!
Yet with great care, he did;
He removed her black hat,
Her raven hair in a mat,
A quite mangy mess, all tangled and dirty.
And so, with compassion, no dither and delay,
The widower knew what she needed.
He left in a rush,
Returned with a brush,
And gathered the ends of her hair.
To the top of her head, hopped the bistre brown bird
And picked out the berries and twigs.
The man’s pleasing hands rangled,
Meticulously detangled,
And carefully removed all the knots.
And then mem’ries relit the burnt-out star in his chest,
Of when he’d brushed his dear late wife’s tresses.
The same look in her eyes,
Bringing fluttering butterflies,
Like the witch who now sat before him.
When his brush reached her scalp, her body, it shivered,
Basking in the strokes of the bristles.
How long had it been?
She couldn’t remember when
She’d felt joy from the hands of a man.
It wasn’t long before her tendrils, they shone,
And cascaded in smooth, silky threads.
He wiped the dirt from her face,
Smudges she wore with such grace.
He said, “You’re beautiful,” with hope in his timbre.
The bird shredded her hat with its sharp, pointed beak,
As she spoke with an open heart reaching,
“I love you, your kindness so rare,
Your hands touched with such care.”
Thus, their lips met in a warm, tender kiss.
By taking a chance and opening the door,
His brave soul had found love once more, and
Lo and behold, imagine that—
With a witch with a hawk on her hat!
