As I look at the two of them there,
Dorothy and Glinda, I wonder:
Which of them will I become
When I am old and very wrinkled?
Holding her scepter-wand, light as light,
Glinda’s pink brilliance barely catches
Dorothy’s shadows ahead, gladly clasps
with her free hand the black-shoed maiden
leading innocence to ruby-slippered power.
Will I laugh with titilating lilt
as I carry the world’s burdens
off to mysterious destinations
floating upon a bubble of stars?
Or perhaps I will poppy and medicate
from my everpresent Kansas handbasket,
pulling a top hat of tricks over my eyes,
to drown out my own overblown joke
with whine and self-indulgence?
There they stand, two witches.
One finds flight and fancy,
another will disembark in darkness.
Like you and me, both bubble and bitch
spin their brand of magic upon this world
conjuring fluff and blood with word and deed.
So seeing these two again I ask: Witch am I?