On the Eve of the Strawberry Moon Eclipse

Ain’t that just the way:

My witches’ bath products?

Delivered during Kentucky rain.

Honey. Live for them showers.
Gods. Penumbra-soaked box had itself a snake
and a house sorting bath bomb nestled inside

and, naturally, 5 bags of bath bomb crumbles,

cause can’t never have enough
bath bomb crumbles or never enough friends to share with– 
Doll. Even these days without believable mind
to find witches to blame for this plague or, pandemic: 
these days, these days. Sugar. Tonnes of
these days where we socialize distantly. 
Sunshine. However do spin and align the yonder planets,
we wash our hands.
Precious. Ritual in our hands, Rule of Three:
wash our hands, wash our hands, 
towel ourselves into better be-ings. 

Singled out, some done find themselves outcrafted by the calendar-
time ain’t been wandering, but it sure seems so.

Mercy. Volunteers contain themselves, protective,

into solitary practices.