are many manuscripts 
just bursting at the seams,
many spellbound magic books
for healing broken things
aged, patinaed, patched and frayed,
still sitting on the shelf
some come loose, some pinned with twine
but all chock full of wealth.
with charms to gall an adder’s sting
to root out poison, rot
engendered by the canon always
leaning for its shot.
halfcocked, they aim their leather spines
at us, our Magic Place
that burns, bewitches, weakens them
they call us  a disgrace.
they disregard our wisdom
and our sage and studied views,
claim we know not what we say,
discount us as confused.
in truth, they're sore afraid of us,
our planet and our stars,
our bodies, hearts, and most, our minds,
our endless reservoirs.
our mother's shelves hold manuscripts
some old and well-worn songs
to rattle out the many truths
and right the many wrongs.
so light the fire, put pots to boil,
then toil and twist and throw
a list of all the loathsome trolls
make thick their gruel of woe
remind them there’s a place for us,
we have the right and might
to bring them down to rubble dust
we've just begun to fight.

Heather Peters Candela