It is getting dark
and in the north are woods
where I used to take
my children on walks
when I was a professor
who unscrewed carefully
ancient cedar boxes
and showed the interiors
to students and cursed them
forever with dark magic.
In the center of the woods
of course is the house
of a witch who was
never born and can never die.
One snowy evening,
my children and I
became stranded there.
The witch watched us
like a large black spider
as we warmed ourselves
by her fireplace.
We fell asleep.
When we woke, it was spring,
and when we opened our eyes
we saw only a meadow
carpeted with the lavender
mist of bluebells.