Frau Holle, I would ride with witches

Out of my pale bounded life

And into the heart of your mountain.

I would straddle a broom behind

Your flying cart, sweep the sky

Like you tell me to sweep my house

Surrounded by the howling souls

Of dead children like scudding lint

Against the full Yule Moon.

Frau Holle, I would fly off the handle

And lose everything, to gain a fuller world

And your favour in the bargain.

I would mutter over my stirring pot

Instead of tinned soup and packaged noodles,

Or worse, bad chips. Teach me the potions

That will give me bravery, and more important

Motivation when the world is grey and dusty,

The will to get up and sweep again.

Frau Holle, I would do a hundred days of spinning

To pay for the spring cleaning

Of this one wounded witch’s heart.