She was neck deep in the cauldron
when steam started to rise
her sister witches began to screech
and fear for her demise

but she waved them off abruptly
and demanded to be left alone
to stew in a magical concoction,
a recipe of her own

for when her cauldron bubbles,
ideas and thoughts come alive
she scoops them up, drinks them down,
and then begins to scribe

and although it’s ancient lore,
that many have yet to grasp
one must allow ideas to simmer
before pouring them in a flask

patience, she declares,
is the magic of her brew
but such a virtue is rare,
a quality possessed by few

so once again she simmers,
letting the heat rise in her eyes
conjuring her magic
awaiting the cauldron’s surprise