The trees hold magic.
Weaving a spell they walk me down the path,
opening new ones and closing the old.
I lose my way and breathe in the confusion;
my heart takes lead. Magic lives.
My feet trod on rock alive for millions of years:
Their song stirs my soul; its poetry enlivens my breath. I am blessed with strong legs and a heart that beats to nature’s rhythm. Magic is forever.
Friends listen to my stories. My mother, long past, embraces my heart and my son tells of his love. Magic thrives.
My muse dances on fingers tips and words awaken on the page; the moon, no more than a breath, tilts slightly to the right and the gull trills her family home. Magic creates.
Bare branches limn the blushing peach sky as the first star says goodnight. I give thanks for the many blessing both quiet and bold while soft darkness blankets my soul. Magic is life.
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