Willow knows water and moon, bending where others break. Tonight I let the branches shape themselves under my fingers.
They form a small circle, rough and wild. From it hang three black bells, a pentacle, and a tiny key - all bound with knotted cord.
The bells speak of old wardings, their sound meant to disturb unseen shadows. The pentacle, ancient as earth, encloses elemental harmony. And the key - small, curious - guards mysteries yet unopened.
I touched the willow with rose oil, its sweetness mingling with the wood's memory. Rose for tenderness, rose for thorns.
The charm hangs crooked, imperfect. I like it better this way.
For now, it rests among other things my hands have made - a circle of willow, three bells, a pentacle, a key.
And something of myself, tangled in every knot.