Three-Line Spells

Witchy Haiku of Herbs, Moonlight, and Bloom

By Michelle Hoffmann

Not every spell requires an ancient grimoire.

Sometimes it requires a cup of tea.

A little rosemary by the door. A candle burning in daylight. Seeds pressed into warm soil. A window opened after a long winter. A cat asleep beside your tarot cards, offering the remarkably sensible prophecy that perhaps you should rest before trying again.

Three-Line Spells: Witchy Haiku of Herbs, Moonlight, and Bloom by Michelle Hoffmann is a collection of short, witchy poetry celebrating the quiet magick hidden inside ordinary life.

Across these pages, herbs become charms, gardens become altars, moonlight becomes medicine, and familiar daily rituals take on new meaning. Rosemary guards the threshold. Basil invites soft love. Lavender brings gentler sleep. Chamomile quiets an anxious mind. Seeds become prayers pushed into the earth with dirty fingers.

But the magick in this book reaches beyond candles, crystals, herbs, and moonwater.

Sometimes the spell is setting a boundary.

Sometimes it’s forgiving yourself.

Sometimes it’s putting down your phone and allowing silence back into the room. Mending something instead of throwing it away. Making a small list of things you can actually accomplish. Thanking your tired body for carrying you this far.

Sometimes the spell is simply saying, I choose to begin again.

Spring moves throughout the collection as both season and teacher. Flowers return. Windows open. Rain washes away what has grown stale. New growth pushes through old earth without asking yesterday for permission.

And, naturally, cats make themselves at home among the magick.

They cross paths like velvet omens, nap on tarot cards, purr beside spells, and remind us of several important truths: warmth is worth seeking, rest is sacred, boundaries matter, and joy does not require justification. The final page even gives the black cat the last word—or at least the last stare.

Three-Line Spells isn’t meant to be hurried through.

Open it anywhere.

Choose a poem in the morning. Keep one beside your journal. Read one before lighting a candle or working in the garden. Return when you’re tired, hopeful, overwhelmed, starting over, or simply in need of something small and steady.

These poems are little rituals of attention—reminders that softness can be powerful, ordinary things can be sacred, and making a meaningful life doesn’t always require something extraordinary.

Sometimes you already have everything you need.

A candle.
A garden.
A little moonlight.

And the willingness to notice the magick that’s been there all along.