Between Bruises and Blooms

The candle was small.

The night wasn’t.

The moon watched
through broken branches
while I sat
outside an abandoned house
that looked like it had been
slowly adopted by the forest.

I sparked the bowl.

The ember glowed orange.

For a moment,

I couldn’t tell if
I was smoking cannabis

or breathing in
the last spell
this place had cast
a hundred years ago.

Every exhale
fed the darkness.

Every inhale
pulled peace
from the trees.

Maybe magic
has never been
about wands.

Maybe it’s always been

fire,

plants,

the moon,

and women
who refuse
to stop blooming.