When the Balefire burns out

My home has been The Covenstead (gathering place for a Coven) for over two years. We have had more people in and out of my doors, more plates of food shared, more laughter and more earth shattering moments of acceptance and healing on my patch of the Farm than I can confidently count… and now it’s still. No buzzing Witches popping in with arms full of wine and crockpots full of buffalo dip (Skye, I miss you dearly… and I really REALLY miss your buffalo dip). No shuffling of chairs so we can all scoot close together and laugh deeply on the porch after eating our huge buffet that covers both table and counter space of my kitchen. No Coven husbands gathering firewood while our kids squeal and play in the grass by the chicken coop. There’s no Balefire in the firepit to light the night sky and carry our worries away with it’s ashes drifting through the sky like shooting stars. Silent are the woods that surround our Sacred Circle, no candles lit to guide our way through the leaf covered darkness to our meeting place where we share our most profound moments, our deepest magicks bursting forward to dance in the candle light; and for this, I weep.