Between Bruises and Blooms

If my candle burns lower
than it did yesterday,
do not mistake the silence
for abandonment.

Even witches catch winter
in the middle of summer.

The herbs still hang from their strings.
The books remain open.
The moon still knows my name.

But tonight,
my voice has been traded
for tea steeped too long,
a box of tissues,
and dreams that ask me to rest
instead of write.

The ravens can guard the doorway
for a little while.

The ghosts know where to find me.
The poems have not disappeared—
they are only sleeping
beneath blankets of fever,
waiting for my hands
to feel like magic again.

Every spell requires intention.

Tonight,
my only incantation is healing.

So if the old house grows quiet
and the pages remain still,
know this—

I have not left the forest.

I am simply curled beneath its branches,
letting the earth stitch me back together,
until the candle burns bright enough
to welcome you home once more.