Loam under fingernails. Toes buried in soil. Air fragrant with moist, rich earth.
I relish my moments spent in the garden — a visual altar, so to speak, of my relationship with the land and its energies. I feed and water as needed; the plants grow, pushing skyward, creeping along the ground.
Yarrow, the wisewoman's herb, guards the gate; while wind chimes dance in the twilight — calling the Old Ones home ... among the nodding columbine, viola, and alyssum. This garden witch's charm I weave, with harm to none, so mote it be.