Why at the Witching Hour do I wake so oft of late? When witch’s caldron might bubble and boil, bits of body, twig, spell thrown together. The wee hours of the morning when most all are a slumber, deep in my mind, it stirs.

Stir crazy I might be, ‘tis so, that’s when the battle line is set. Ye, over and over, two sides of my mind meet in the darkness, busy brain and wise wonder, who will prevail?

Prevail the wisdom of the ages o’er the witch’s spell, spun to stir me up and out of my rest, my mind turns to prayer practice, and deeper breathes, to clear, and give calm the bout this time, darkened, hushed,

Ah the wondrous Witching Hour.