Mother’s Magic

There are moments

when the magic shimmers—

just out of reach.

A shadow caught

from the corner of my eye

where everything shines

in a soft-focus haze.

She cannot survive

a direct stare.

The trauma bundled

tight beneath my ribs,

locked behind my heart,

is too much

for her to withstand.

But if I stand softly

and breathe slowly,

she will stay a while—

and dance beside me.

Whispering of the good

still, left behind. Dreaming

of sunsparkles skipping

across whispering waters.

Enjoying the soft wind carrying

a flower’s favorite perfume

She hushes the world

with the crunch

of newly turned leaves,

all while resting quietly

on a living bed

of grass’s gentle sigh.

The trick is to remain

as still as breath,

as quiet as dusk—

for only in reverent silence

do the world’s wonders arrive.

One must resist

the clanging chaos

that demands everything—

deny this demonstrative thing

we call life.

Avoiding this unnamed they

who call us to worship

the gods of productivity

and progress,

who beg

for our obedience

in the name of

the greater good.

Magic does not beg,

but she is fickle.

She does not shout.

She stands.

in the shadowlands of the fae,

unmoved by gravity or law,

unruled by society.

She was here first.

She will be here after.

She waits

for others like her—

the steady-breathed,

the watchers of stars,

the listeners of leaves—

to join her

in nature-infused

stoic silence.

And when they do,

when the shimmer

becomes breath,

when the observer

becomes

the very phenomenon

she once revered—

then

she becomes

magic herself.

A silent force.

A breath beyond life.

A daughter

of starlight and stone,

of moonpull and tide.

A child

of the chaos

that birthed her.

Beginning

and end—

wrapped in the hush

of things too sacred

to name.

She is

Mother Nature’s

daughter.

And she

is a force

to be reckoned with.