There’s a stretch of garden along my white fence that’s never quite obeyed the rules — too narrow for grandeur, too wild to be proper. And so, I let it be what it wanted to be: a place where clover crept in between the plantings, soft and defiant, and a single mini rosebud dared to bloom without asking.
I realized this week: it’s not just a garden bed. It’s a threshold, and it has a name now.
The Witch’s Edge.
Here, the cultivated and the untamed meet. The rose opens like a whispered secret. The clover spreads like a green spell underfoot. This is where magic grows without permission — just presence.
I’ve always believed that the old ways live in simple places.
And in this little fence-line of green, I remembered:
Nature was the first temple.
And the witch walks at its edges.
