The Old Magic
This morning the earth is gloriously alive
every living thing green, glistening, glowing
with the golden sunrise
and the world stirs with the Old Magic again
enough to make even the skeptics believe in fey queens and Underhill
tree nymphs and selkies
and the spirit of every thing unseen and immortal, sleeping
waiting for some foretold seeker to waken them from enchanted dreams
The sweet breeze is a song unsung, ever changing and mysterious
begging the minstrels and musicians to follow her and learn of true music
of things we cannot grasp but yearn to understand
of life and death and all the secrets in between
This morning is like poetry
something sacred and transcendent, transient
vibrant and untouchable
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