Because I wanted to, I wrote up my witch’sona

Picture her in the woods, because that’s where she was born.

There’s a giant maple tree there, with roots that have pushed out of the surrounding loam, and that’s where she’s sitting. Communing.

Her hair is brown-and-ash, the color of the bark, and her skirts are green-and-brown, like the moss and the fallen leaves. Thistle-purple lace peeks out from under her skirts, and from under her sleeves, which are long and leather, to fend off the sharp things that live in the woods.

Her feet are bare, because some sharp things are worth enduring to know what the lay of the land is, and her stocking cap is long and striped, the pompom at the tip getting lost in her hair.

She doesn’t smile, but her expression is calm, and her hands are still. This is where she belongs.

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