The Magic

by S. I. Brubaker

Where has all the Magic gone? Did it ride in the road,
A writhing creature, tortuous; scaled and stained with woad?
Or did it, cunning animal, abide down by the creek,
Snarling, sneering from the shadows, baring sharpened teeth?

Or did it reside between the ceiling and the walls,
And make its dwelling, happy ghost, in silent upstairs halls?
I know it came to comfort when I wept upon my bed,
When only oak boughs overtured to shelter my wet head.

Was it spoken by the seasons, by the tidings of the day?
Or was it merely a divine pedantic sort of play
Devised for fortune and for fun? Where is the Magic now?
Did I fall out of love with it? Did I forget just how

To call it from the dusky woods? O, Mirror of the Day—
Dare I love your surface, and at once this sacred play?

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S. I. Brubaker—poet, sister, daughter, and lover of trees—has discovered that the best things have the fewest words attached. Nevertheless, she continues resolutely in her overwordy ways, and hopes you shall do the same. Brubaker is the founder and editor of the Kingfisher Quarterly and co-host of the Kingfisher Pod.