Maybe it is all magic

 

If you need a little light, I can offer the goldfinch.

If you need a little hope, the first young cardinal has visited.

Surprise? Dragonflies have paused their mad flight;

are posed by the garden, balanced on slender bamboo poles.

Their wings filter the Cosmos, softening the fire of orange.

Maybe it is all magic, wonder, grace. Or just the turn summer

takes. Last night a slice of moon, engraved

with the jumping horse, glowed in the angry sky

and cicada music swung through the warm air.

A song in need of tuning, but loud and vibrant.

Before the last rain, the last deluge, a few

exoskeletons hung on the bark of the lonely pine

amber shells strangely emptied; life broken out

for a brief reign.

Look, just now, the squirrel has shooed sparrows

off the feeder and is busily eating,

grooming and mocking the groundhog, Otto, who loves

the sunflowers too, but must wait for whatever

falls. And, on the roof, shadow shows me

that another squirrel is running down

the eaves, her tail flicking wildly the whole journey.

If you need a little light, I can offer this:

every movement is a dance, a chance to claim

what must be done. Get up and go.