Sometimes I sit in my Grove
and wonder how the years grow old.

Another year.
Another seed.
A planting now
for the coming deeds.

In my Grove I sit and wonder
how it is the village sunders.

Another letter.
Another storm.
Ashes in the cauldron warm.
Old words still softly churn.

Yet I am thankful we are moving,
watching small seeds slowly blooming.

The Grove is here.
The Grove is near.

It grows where feet are rooted
and hearts are clear.

If I spoke the secret of my magic
most within the village
would not believe it.

It is not in crystals.
Nor in herbals.

Not in bones.
Nor in the cauldron.

It lives within
the spark inside—
the soul divine,
the soul in love.

I sow seeds
of many colours.

Green
for health and growing strong.

Red
for love and warm embrace.

Black
for protection’s steadfast grace.

White
for the light that gently guides.

Yet I am soil
as they toil—

and the magic that blends
and slowly wends
is simply that
of our intent.

And in this Grove
that I make

the magic grows
a golden web.

Thread to thread.
Heart to heart.

From my husband
to our children.

This is the magic
of our Grove.

From the woods
to the cottage threshold.

A web of love.
A web of trust.

A web that catches us
when the storms blow through.

A web strong as silk.
A web shining bright
with threads of golden light
through the longest nights.

This is the Grove
that I tend.

It may not seem
like much to you—

but my purpose here
is clear and true.

Guard this home.
Protect this space.

And let those
who wander here within

remember
they carry the same magic within.

That they too may build their Groves,
find their homes,
and discover a sanctuary
worth living in.