She watches the sun rise,
Feels the warmth of its rays kiss her skin,
The touch of nature is a prize,
Her fondness of technology grows ever so thin.
The gentle caress of a soft breeze,
And the smell of freshly cut grass,
Are ever more comforting that a shopping spree,
This generation’s obsessions with screens is a farce.
A cry of a bird,
Or the meow of a cat,
Are far more satisfying than that of the absurd,
It is never a question of old or new, she’s as mad as a bat.
So, the witch goes on her way,
Enjoying the kisses of summer,
Her fluttering dresses do sway,
But her smile is more than the scarlet runner.
You’ll find treats and delights in her stutter.