She whispered to the plants, and they whispered back in secret. « Spell of nature » is the working title of a new pattern collection. It is a quiet tribute to (NØ)’s grandmother, who was a kind of alchemist, a white witch, though no one called her that aloud.
A slanting wind crosses the clearing,
blond dust on the morning’s lashes.
Beneath my steps, the earth barely breathes,
cracked open by ancient vows.
Stems stand watch, slender and proud,
scratched with amber, knotted with salt.
Bearing names no one speaks anymore,
their shadows turned inward.
A flower — open like a joyful wound —
breathes out a secret whose scent wavers.
Each leaf holds a fragment of story,
folded in a shimmer of moss, sealed by a drop of dew.
Here, silence tastes of mint and blackberries.
An undone prayer drifts among the brambles.
And the sky, edged with green dust,
bows its brow toward the unseen.
Tell me once more the story of gentle witchcraft,
the one from my childhood bathed in sunlight.
The echo of your voice whispering our incantations
fills my silences—I lean into your memory.
She knew about every root, every leaf, mushroom or root in her garden, not just their latin name, but also their stories, their hidden power, their spirits and treated them as treasures. She crushed leaves into poultices, warmed up petals into salve, distilled stems into potions that healed bodies and souls.
