A long time ago, there lived a bungalow
Below the grove, tucked in the undergrowth.

Three sisters lived in a single row—
                             witches, they said—
                         but who was to know?

The middle was a bridge between worlds:
Left, or right—which would delight?
A harbinger of words, these woods endure.

The right was a fighter, polite with a bite:
Right wrongs & write songs, all night long.
Bleeding heart of passion, a smile of style.

The left was loyal, never to leave:
Leaf-by-leaf, by autumn’s fall, to haul
Stitches to riches, which turn to kisses.

Sisterhood is woven into the neighborhood.
Trees would fall; paper births a covenant.

Blood promised, mud on us, we were honest:
In nature we trust, to nurture we must.

Bewitched is the daughter who finds her coven.