Will

I leave you the cottage,
the book about fungi, and the broom.
The goat with her ruthless teeth
will belong to you also.
I leave you better sense than your mother had,
the deck of cards, the herb garden,
the tea kettle and cups,
and the rabble of people who do not like witches,
but who will brave the brambles
hoping you have a remedy
hidden somewhere, maybe under your shoe,
in your cupboard, or in the escargatoire in the root cellar.
Which reminds me, I leave you, too,
the cupboard and the escargatoire.
And the root cellar.
Yours the roughened hands and the logolepsy.
Yours the prescient dreams, the beeswax candles,
and the will to deliver, no matter the hour,
whatever must come bleeding and squalling into this world.

Don't forget to feed the goat.