It is a summer day
and my six year old
is on the floor
dragging a brush
across a canvas
while I sit at my desk
trying to conjure
some art of my own.
A gray border
frames a sky-blue background
where orange and purple
jump out from the center
in long, thick strokes.
What are you painting? I ask.
A witch, he replies.
To see what he’ll say
I ask, what’s a witch?
You know, like on Halloween
he says, his eyes on his work.
What do witches do?
Magic, he says
his focus unbroken,
the brush still moving.
Are witches real?
I don’t know. No one knows.
Then he looks up at me
and says, witches know, and smiles.