Herbarium Animæ

There is a house at the edge of the wood where the light comes late and leaves early, and all through its dim rooms the summer hangs drying in the dark. Everything here began as a seed in my own hand, cut at the hour it was willing to be taken and hung until the scent turned low and old and true. Herbs wait for the steeping cup and for the charm folded beneath a pillow; oils blended slow by hand from the finest organic essential oils, some worn like a whispered secret, some to tend the hair. Nothing false, nothing stretched thin to fill the glass. So cross the threshold, and let the small thing that has waited for you find you. Grown, dried, and spoken over… my own hands, my own earth.